


This Poisoned Earth

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Character Deaths, Death of Major Characters, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Musketeers AU, Recreational Drug Use, References to Torture, Violence, Violence against women, Violence of a Sexual Nature, addiction to prescription medication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 70,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a near dystopia, the world has divided into the haves and the have nots: those with oil and those without, who have to rely on technological advances. War is the inevitable result. Countries of the UK secede from the Union and a Eurolition force is formed to try and stop the invasion. At an impasse, the enemy turn to biological weapons and Aramis and Porthos are caught in the aftermath, trying to stay alive in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Aramis had no idea how much longer he’d be able to cope. Life was growing increasingly desperate with every day that passed.

He and Porthos were currently lying low in the cellar of an abandoned Parisian town-house, surrounded by the detritus of the former occupant's life, who, judging by the smell, had probably died here. This wasn't unusual--it was how things had been since the bio-attacks--and it wasn’t the state of their temporary home that worried Aramis. How to keep Porthos quiet whilst the troops were searching this arrondissement was his greatest concern.

The big man's eyes rolled in his head as he sat up. "'Mis?"

"I'm here. Shush now."

"I'm thirsty."

Aramis passed him a bottle of water. "Here. How are you feeling?"

"Bit wonky still."

Aramis was filled with a burgeoning sense of hope. Slowly but surely Porthos was coming back. Somehow, some fucking way, the man was fighting this damn disease off. His new found relief died at the sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs and, covering Porthos as best he could with moth-eaten blankets, Aramis aimed his pistol at the entrance. There was nothing else he could do: one way in, one way out.

The door was kicked open and a slight figure in fatigues burst into the room, assault rifle pointing straight at him. "Survivors," she yelled to her comrades. "Quick, you two. Out. They're clearing this area and interning everyone healthy in New Bas." She didn't need to explain what happens to the sick ones.

Aramis hauled Porthos to his feet.

"He all right?" she asked.

Aramis nodded. "Avian flu. It's what happens when you hide out in a chicken shed for a week." The lies came easily to him now.

She waved them up the stairs with her AK-47. "Out of the building then around the corner and there's a truck waiting. Now!"

"A truck?"

"We commandeered it from the Guard earlier today."

She was proud and deservedly so. Vehicles had been hard to come by since the war.

The air outside was heavy with the clatter of gunfire and thick with acrid smoke. Aramis followed the resistance squad to the lorry, pleased to see that Porthos was managing to keep up without his help.

"There's a fire," said the big man as they drove through the streets. "What're they burning?"

"Just rubbish," said Aramis, making sure those trusting brown eyes were turned away from the piles of twitching bodies. A small part of him hoped Porthos would stay innocent of the horror for as long as possible.

As they left Paris and headed north, the number of _diseased_ increased exponentially. Aramis wasn’t certain which he loathed most: the feral or the helpless. "Where are we going?" he asked the woman.

"Through the Tunnel." She seemed haunted and an explanation for it soon followed. "The occupation is complete. The Eurolition forces can't hold France any longer. It's over."

"All for one and one for all," muttered Aramis which made Porthos smile, but did little to lighten Aramis' spirits.

"You were one of Treville's mob?" The woman looked at him in surprise. "A Musketeer?"

It was the nickname for the anti-terror squad--something honourable and old--and Aramis hadn't heard it in years. Not since the French army was defeated at the border.

"Yeah. He and I were recruited the same day." He pointed to Porthos. "We've been through everything together." Shoulder to shoulder, they watched as the world devoured itself.

"Lieutenant de Larroque," said the woman, taking off her cap and redoing the blonde ponytail. "Formerly of Military Intelligence."

They disembarked from the truck at the broken down entrance to the Channel Tunnel. The embankments were riddled with bunkers, throughout which were dotted resistance fighters, their weapons covering all angles of approach.

"Train still running, Constance?" the Lieutenant said to a young woman, whose pretty face was all but hidden under smudges of dirt and tiredness.

"It is, but it's the last time." Constance wiped her hands on her overalls. "Athos says we have to close the route down."

"He's right," said de Larroque. "We haven't enough troops to defend it any longer."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Lieutenant."

Aramis turned, surprised to hear such patrician tones in a shit hole like this. The speaker may have sounded out of place here, but he didn't look it and, with his scruffy hair and worn fatigues, Aramis would’ve put money on the fact that he was a soldier through and through. 

Dismounting from his horse, the man handed the reins to one of the nearby troops. "We'll keep the service tunnel open for as long as we can." He looked the truck over. "Excellent find, Ninon."

"A steal actually," replied de Larroque and received an impressed tilt of the head in response.

"What about fuel?" Athos turned to Constance. 

"I'm sure I can source it from Bonacieux and his collaborator friends without them noticing."

"Good." He switched his attention to Aramis and Porthos, eyeing them up and down. "These are the only stragglers from eleven?"

"All we could find before the clearing squads arrived," said Ninon.

"Put this one on the train," he said pointing to Aramis. "The other has HC33. Shoot him."

"It's Avian flu," said Aramis, his heart in his mouth.

The man pulled down one of Porthos' eyelids and examined him. "It's HC33. We shoot him." As he removed the Glock from its holster, Aramis aimed his own semi-automatic right between those cold, blue eyes. 

"You kill him. I'll kill you."

"Athos please," said Constance. "Hear him out at least."

Aramis was panicking--this was an absolute nightmare--he should never have allowed them to be herded into the city, but, caught between a mass horde of _diseased_ and an entire brigade of Guards, there was nowhere left to run. He’d give up his life to defend Porthos, no doubt about it. "You're right; he does have it," he said, gun still trained on Athos, who appeared not to give a damn and was leaning casually against the truck, his arms folded. 

"I know. Now tell me why I shouldn't put him down."

"'Mis?" grumbled Porthos. "What's going on?"

"That's why," explained Aramis."Three weeks ago he wouldn't have cared. He's getting better."

"No one gets better. It's just wishful thinking on your part."

"Believe me, Porthos is." Aramis prayed this bastard had some of his heart left. "I'm a doctor. I should know."

"Oh, a doctor." Athos' lips twisted into a one sided smirk. "Well, that changes everything. As you can see, doctors and scientists have made the world into such a wonderful place."

"But what if he _is_ getting better, Athos," said the lieutenant. "Snap out of your melancholia for once. Think what it might mean."

"It means _nothing_ ," said Athos. "Just a sentimental fool who'd see his friend, lover, whatever, come to a hideous end rather than a quick one."

Aramis was mortified. "Not even cl-"

"Enough," interrupted Athos, his hand raised.

"They were Musketeers," said de Larroque gently.

"We _are_ Musketeers," stated Aramis.

Athos rubbed at his temples. "Put them both on the train, if you must," he said coldly, holstering his gun. “It makes no difference to me. I’ll shoot him later if needs be.”

Heart still thumping in his chest, Aramis helped Porthos into the carriage. Two thirds of the seating had been ripped out to make room for equipment. There were cases of drinks stacked up and the troops were carrying on boxes of ammo from which Aramis felt an urge to pilfer.

"Don't even think about it," said Ninon, aware of the direction in which his eyes were straying. "We need every round if we're to win this. Personally, I'd rather you were with us doing the shooting."

Aramis remained silent. How could he agree to any such thing when Porthos was under threat from a psychopath and they were currently on a train bound for no man's land?

"I'll see you when you get back," said Constance as she dropped off the last of the supplies.

"Indeed. Stay safe and don't let that bastard of a husband get you down." Ninon hugged Constance goodbye.

"She's a lovely girl," said Aramis, eyeing her appreciatively through the window as she hurried off in the direction of the truck.

The lieutenant frowned. "She's an incredibly courageous woman, and many of us would be dead if it weren't for her. But please, go ahead and demean her as much as you see fit."

"Don't frighten the newcomers with your feminist evangelising, Ninon," came a slow drawl from in front of them. "You need a scold's bridle."

"And you need a haircut," said Ninon, sitting down next to Athos. "I'll trim it for you when we get back to HQ."

Aramis tried and failed to fathom these two out; despite everything, they intrigued him greatly.

"Do you want me to dope you?" said Ninon in an undertone.

More intrigued than ever, Aramis watched the reflected image in the glass as Ninon gave Athos an injection with practiced ease. She either had a medical background, which he doubted, or this was something she was used to doing. As soon as Athos slumped sideways in his seat Ninon spoke into her radio and the train began to move.

Within minutes, the gentle roll of the carriage lulled Porthos to sleep. Aramis knew from experience that, given the chance, he'd be out for hours and grabbed the opportunity to go for a piss. On the way back from the toilet, after checking on his friend, he took a bottle of water from a crate and sat down opposite Ninon.

"Is he okay?" he asked, nodding at Athos. "I've had a lot of experience of field medicine if you need help."

"Don't worry about him." All of a sudden they were plunged into darkness. "Don't worry about that either," she added. "We don't have enough juice to power everything." Low level emergency lights flickered on.

"You and he make a handsome couple," said Aramis with a smile. "Although I wonder whether someone a little less surly might not suit you better."

Ninon pulled a face. "Your charms may work on some, Monsieur, but I can assure you they won't wash with me. And don't judge Athos. He didn't _have_ to help you." With that she got up and stalked off down the carriage and Aramis was left to muse upon how he'd become the bad guy in this scenario. Less than an hour ago the man had threatened to shoot Porthos in the head. Had Lieutenant de Larroque forgotten this minor detail?


	2. Chapter 2

The train took no more than half an hour to reach its destination, and as it came to a squealing halt Ninon returned, injecting Athos to counteract the effects of the sedative. As she talked him back to full wakefulness, he immediately reached for a container of pills from his pocket, washing them down with water. God knows what kind of problems he suffered from, thought Aramis. Not that he could care much less if he tried.

Porthos always struggled most when he'd just woken up and, aware that they were being assessed, Aramis took time to reassure him that everything was okay. “Don’t need help,” said the big man when Aramis automatically went to assist him as they were disembarking from the train. 

Leaning against a maintenance box, with Porthos settled at his side, Aramis wondered what this new country had to offer them.

"Keep your eyes peeled and your gun ready," warned Ninon, as she passed by. "The Guard might not be over here yet, but there are large packs of ferals wandering around and they're hungry."

That answered Aramis’ question rather too well, and he contemplated the future without holding out much hope.

After a while Porthos patted him on the arm. "You okay, Ar'mis? You've gone quiet. That's not like you." 

Aramis looked sideways in amazement. He could bloody well kiss the man. It was the first time in months that Porthos had shown any awareness of anything other than his own specific needs. "Never better, my friend, never better," he said with a smile.

Feeling smug, Aramis sought out Athos amongst the herd of camouflage clad troops who were unloading equipment from the train. He was easy to spot with that upright swagger of his and, in tune perhaps, Athos noticed him and strode over.

"You must have some experience of demolition in anti-terror. I need to permanently disable both main tunnels without damaging the service chute in between." Opening a bottle of water, he tipped some into a cupped palm and splashed it over his face. "I can't think straight. It’s far from my field of expertise."

"I generally tried to _prevent_ explosions." As Athos' lips formed a thin, disappointed line, Aramis wished he could withdraw this flippant comment. "A controlled detonation in the tunnel requires a lot of skill."

"Exactly as I thought," said Athos grimly.

Aramis considered the problem for a while. "But a controlled explosion on a train would be far easier to calculate. It would cause a fire and block the tunnel without needing either precision, or a full scale blast."

"Brilliant!" Athos' eyes turned warm and impressed and Aramis basked a little from the afterglow. "What explosives will we need? Can you set the charges?"

For a moment Aramis felt alive again as he and Porthos followed Athos to the temporary stores. Reverse thinking was strange, he discovered as he examined the munitions supplies, but it was good to finally engage his brain at a level higher than hide, eat, run.

Once a plan had been devised--the two men crouched over a crate, etching schematics onto its surface in scratchy biro--Athos leapt to his feet. "Time to see if this works."

Aramis wired up the explosives and rigged the remote detonator, and Athos was about to step up into the driver's cab when Ninon grabbed his arm. "I'll do it. I've driven this thing hundreds of times before."

"No. Absolutely not."

"I only have to run it slow, shift it to auto and get off," she said. "If something goes wrong I have more of a chance of making it out of there."

Athos frowned at her.

"You know I'm right," said Ninon. "Unless you _want_ to embark on a one man suicide mission."

"Get in and out as quickly as you can," ordered Athos as she took his place, slamming the door of the cab behind her, and the look she gave him in response was quite hilarious. In any other situation, Aramis would have laughed. Porthos did: a joyful bark that resounded throughout the makeshift camp.

They waited, Athos glancing at his watch apprehensively every few seconds, until a staticky, "clear," came over the radio followed, a minute later, by an impatient, "you _can_ detonate now."

"I think we'll hang fire until we're certain you're safe," said Athos over the walkie talkie, quirking an eyebrow at Aramis in studied amusement.

They tracked the progress of the train on the monitor, and at ten kilometres in, when the small figure of Ninon emerged from the tunnel, Aramis clicked the remote, praying that everything would go smoothly. They did have a backup plan, but it wasn’t a good one. At first nothing happened except for a muffled thud, but then the tracker showed the train drawing to a halt and fifteen minutes later a growing plume of greasy smoke drifted out of the shaft.

"Good work," said Athos, standing between Aramis and Ninon and slipping a congratulatory arm around both of them for the briefest of moments.

"What about me?" asked Porthos and the sheer relief from _everything_ made Aramis laugh until he doubled up, his sides aching and the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You did well too, my friend.” Athos clapped Porthos on the shoulder then leant in close to check his eyes.

“Oi!” said the big man, shoving Athos’ hand away. “Excuse me.”

By now Aramis was laughing so hard that he was in danger of embarrassing himself and, clinging to Porthos for support, he waited for the hysterics to subside.

Athos was looking at them with a strange expression on his face: sadness, nostalgia, fondness, Aramis couldn’t quite decide. Maybe a combination of all three. "You two idiots, take the jeep with the equipment and follow me," he said. "Ninon, you're in command. Leave a unit on guard duty then get back to base and explain what we're doing to the CO. He won't like it, but he'll take the news better from you."

"Because I'm a woman?"

Athos smirked. "No, because he's terrified of you, as are we all."

Surprised that Athos had had a change of heart and accepted them so readily as part of the team, Aramis stepped forward to offer any extra help he could. He was close enough to overhear a quiet conversation.

"I’m going with you," Ninon said. "You won't cope."

“We need to get this equipment back to base ASAP before the creeps get lively,” said Athos.

"Serge can take command," she suggested and Athos looked at her with a bemused expression on his face. 

"Really?"

"Perhaps not."

Aramis had met Serge. He was neither the brightest, nor the youngest of sparks, and if he was their next link in the chain no wonder Ninon wanted him and Porthos to sign up to the cause.

"Besides, I need to do this, Ninon." Athos shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. "Better I lose it now than when we're really in the shit."

"Okay, but I'm not happy."

"Unhappiness noted for the record."

"Have you got your meds?"

Athos patted the inner pocket of his leather jacket. "Yes, Ma'am," he said, saluting her smartly. He then walked off to check the supplies that were being loaded into a beaten up two seater jeep that was parked alongside a run down bus -- it had explicit graffiti sprayed on the side and appeared to be the resistance's armed personnel carrier.

"Anything I should know?" Aramis asked Ninon.

She examined his face as if she was trying to decipher from his features how much she could trust him. "PTSD," she said. "If he panics then try and talk him down. If that doesn't work then sedate him."

Aramis was relieved it was nothing worse. He was used to this kind of trauma from the battlefield. "Triggers?" he asked.

"You name it," she said solemnly.

 

\---

 

Ready for the off, Aramis climbed into the customised jeep and started the engine. It coughed into life with a ghastly, spluttering sound and he looked at Porthos in alarm. “Don’t know how far we’ll get, mon ami.”

Athos was sitting astride his motorbike next to them. “It’s converted to run on recycled cooking oil which isn’t the best for performance,” he shouted above the racket. “We make do.”

“It’s fine. It goes, that’s the main thing,” yelled Aramis.

“Well, bloody go then,” said Porthos impatiently.

“The depot's about two miles to the east,” said Athos. “Follow me.”

England was a wasteland, every road littered with abandoned cars, the houses on both sides ransacked, but it was the mass gathering of _diseased_ that horrified Aramis. A conglomeration of plague. So many more than in Paris. Had the English succumbed particularly easily to the virus, or was this what happened in a bio attack when there was no enemy to march in, after the pathogen had dispersed, and raze the place to the ground?

The train was housed in an engine shed within a huge complex of multi-storey parks and industrial warehouses. As he alighted from the jeep, Aramis had his gun at the ready because, from a soldier's point of view, this was a nightmare to defend.

“They don’t usually bother coming here,” said Athos, propping his Kawasaki up on its stand. “Nothing much to eat except each other and they can do that anywhere.” Shaking a few pills into his hand, he dry swallowed them and stowed the container away in his jacket.

“What are those?” asked Aramis.

“Aspirin,” said Athos, inviting him to challenge the answer with a cold-eyed stare.

Aramis decided this was neither the time nor the place to play doctor and, instead, began to unload the jeep. “What happens when we need to demolish the service tunnel?” he asked, handing a crate to Porthos. 

Athos shrugged. “If it gets to that point then we won’t be going back so we blow it sky high by any means possible." He handed Aramis the backpack of detonators. “Time to go to work, Musketeer.”

Once Aramis had rigged the bombs, Athos switched the points and climbed up into the cabin. 

"I could do it," said Aramis, although he was doubtful. He’d never aspired to be a train driver when he was a kid.

"I’ll be fine," said Athos. "Not a problem."

"Really?"

Athos remained guarded. "We'll find out in a while."

Not the most encouraging of answers, thought Aramis as he watched the train rattle its way along the sidings before connecting to the main line. He joined Porthos in the jeep and they followed the tracks to the tunnel entrance where they waited nervously.

The lengthy radio silence was ominous. Aramis tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, preparing for the worst and working up a plan of action, when, thirty minutes later, Athos emerged in one piece, his whole body trembling. "The battery died." He glared balefully at the walkie talkie. "Time for some fireworks," he says, his free hand clenched into a fist, knuckles gleaming bone white.

Aramis suspected Athos had had major issues with the tunnel, but it wasn’t his place to question him. Instead, he pressed the detonator, quite convinced that something would go wrong this time, but, just as before, the charges exploded and the train slowed to a dead stop. "We're a crack team of demolition experts," he said and, being a demonstrative person, was tempted to pull Athos into a hug to soothe those frayed nerves. He decided against it. He doubted it would soothe either of them.

"Give me a lift back to my bike, will you," said Athos, sitting on the side of the jeep and hanging on to the roll bar. He took a battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up, heaving in a breath of nicotine as Aramis swung around and drove back up the road towards the depot.

It was the noise that alerted them first: a stumbling, shuffling, groaning sound that sent shivers down Aramis' spine. Pulling over, he grabbed his pistol and, squeezing Porthos' shoulder to reassure him, jumped out of the vehicle.

A large horde was blocking their path: a river of shambling filth that, once upon a time, used to be human. They were truly disgusting. "Give me a gun," said Porthos. 

"They're not feral. They won't bother us." Once again Aramis leaned in to make contact with his friend, but this time it was for his own benefit. He was so fucking relieved that Porthos wasn't turning into one of those things.

Athos stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed an AK-47 from the webbing at the back of the jeep. Standing up, he fired indiscriminately into the pack and flesh exploded, bone splintering into shards. Reloading with a fresh magazine, he repeated until it was empty and there was little else left but a pile of twitching death.

"Stop," shouted Aramis, furious at such pointless slaughter. Grabbing Athos by the collar of his jacket, he shook him fiercely. "They weren't going to harm us."

Athos shoved him away, his face frozen. "You'd rather I leave them until they're so hungry they eat their own flesh. Have you seen that happen, because I have and it's not a pleasant sight, believe me."

Porthos stole Aramis' gun from its holster and picked off the three remaining _diseased_ with crack shots to the head.

"That's two to one in favour of extermination," says Athos. “I win.” Walking away from them, he slung the Kalashnikov over his shoulder and climbed astride his bike.

"You're supposed to back me up," said Aramis, with a sideways glance.

Porthos shrugged. "He was right."

Athos rode up to them. "It'll be dark soon, so we need to get moving." He picked up a wrinkled map from the flatbed of the jeep and stabbed at it with an oil stained finger. "Base is here at Porton Camp. Wiltshire's less populated than most counties so that means fewer creeps around, but it could be difficult getting there, so be on your guard." He gave Porthos the map and said to Aramis: "If I were you I'd let him keep the gun."

The smoke from the tunnel fire was getting thicker by the second and, rather than hang around any longer shooting the breeze, they returned to the motorway, heading into the sunset and breaking the monotony of the journey by dipping into a bag of snacks that someone had thoughtfully thrown in the jeep for them.

"Coke!" said Porthos blissfully as he gulped from the plastic bottle. "All we need is vodka and this'd be perfect." He pointed at the single tail light ahead of them. "Wonder if he wants something to eat."

"Doubt it," laughed Aramis. "Only humans need food."

Three hours later they were submerged in darkest Wiltshire, racing along fiendishly winding roads that grew narrower and harder to negotiate with every passing mile. Where the fuck was Athos leading them?

Eventually, when Aramis was near enough blind from exhaustion, the bike turned into a side road, past a sign marked PHL Porton, and stopped at the guard post of a military base. The barrier was raised and Aramis supposed he should at least acknowledge the soldier as he drove past, but he was too damn tired to bother. 

Athos rode alongside them. "I'll show you to the barracks,” he shouted. “Unless you want to meet everyone first?"

"Sleep," said Aramis, barely able to form words. It felt as if he'd been awake for a month. 

He drove in a dream state, focusing on the tail light of the motorbike -- a beacon to guide him through the darkness. The barracks were in blocks at the outer edge of the parade ground and everything this side was silent. The only sign of life came from the imposing main building opposite.

The room Athos showed them to was bleak but clean. The utility lighting emphasised the starkness of the place, but it had a shower and it had beds and it was _safe_ , and for that Aramis was immensely grateful.

Athos looked at his watch. "They'll still be serving food in the mess if you're hungry," he said.

"No thanks, mate. We ate a ton of crisps and chocolate on the way here," said Porthos, shaking his head. "We just want a kip."

"Fair enough," said Athos. "I'll be down the corridor if you need anything." 

He closed the door softly, leaving them in peace, and Aramis threw himself back onto one of the single beds. It may have only been an army mattress, but to him it was made of feathers, air and possibly sunshine. Porthos raced to be first in the shower and Aramis smiled at the wonderful normality of hearing singing combined with water.

He woke, sometime later, still lying on his back with his boots on, the only difference being that he was now covered by a blanket. Porthos was snoring away opposite him and Aramis couldn't believe they’d both crashed out so quickly. Alert from years of active service, something was bothering him and quietly he opened the door then peered up and down the corridor. There was a flicker of light to the left and, checking that his gun was in its holster, he followed the slight hissing sound coming from that direction.

Peering through a backlit glass door, he saw a shabby recreation room, complete with pool tables and drinks machines. A wall mounted television was switched on, showing nothing but analogue interference, and below it sat Athos, staring at a locket on a long silver chain that lay open in the palm of his right hand.

Aramis wasn't certain whether or not he ought to intrude, but it was the bottle of scotch on the table that convinced him he should. 

"Hey, do the refreshment machines work?" he asked as he opened the door a crack.

Athos looked up, visibly startled and Aramis was certain that, just for a moment, the man had no idea where he was. "Sorry, no," he answered eventually. "But there's a kitchen next door with a kettle and some tea and coffee." He paused. "If you like bad tea and coffee, that is. I'd hold out 'til breakfast if I were you." He tucked the chain back under his shirt.

"Trouble sleeping?" asked Aramis, entering the room and sitting opposite him. He was fishing of course, and could see the internal battle Athos was having over whether to divulge any personal information. In the end, it seemed the man was too exhausted to fight.

"I take clonazepam, but it's not working as well as it used to."

"Bad dreams?"

"Yes."

"You think that'll help?" Aramis pointed to the full bottle of whisky on the table. Benzos and booze were a notoriously lethal combination. 

"It might do."

"I've a much better idea." Aramis rummaged in a pocket of his cargoes and pulled out a small tin. Opening it up he revealed a bag of grass, some papers and a lighter.

"Seriously?" Athos actually smiled.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor." Aramis laughed. "I used it to calm Porthos down when he was really bad." He rolled a joint neatly, licking and sticking the paper. "Have you ever smoked dope?"

Athos nodded. "At university. Back when there was a world to live in." 

As his eyes drifted off to a faraway place, Aramis lit up and huffed in a breath. It was spicy and comforting and probably the crappiest idea on the planet right now, but without sleep no one could function. He passed the joint to Athos who took a deep hit and leant back in the chair; his head lolling against the seat cushion. 

"What did you do before?" asked Aramis.

"I worked for the UN until I was drafted into the military."

When it became apparent Athos was not about to relinquish any more information, _or_ the joint, Aramis rolled another for himself. "What are the nightmares about?" he asked, flicking his lighter on.

The man was a study in silence and stretched out across the row of chairs, letting the ash tumble away. "Everything," he said wearily and as his eyelids shuttered, the remains of the joint fell to the floor.

Picking up the roach, Aramis dropped it into a half drunk mug of coffee and then covered Athos over with his leather jacket. He sat for a while, finishing his spliff and contemplating the supine form in front of him, then, deciding to let sleeping dogs lie, he headed back to bed for a couple more hours of shut eye.


	3. Chapter 3

Woken by a series of sharp taps at the door, Aramis opened it to be handed two plastic wrapped bundles. "Breakfast is served in the mess until oh nine hundred," said a kid who looked like he should be in school uniform instead of battle dress.

"Thanks," he said and shutting the door, he ripped open the parcels like it was Christmas. He'd forgotten how wonderful clean clothes smelt.

After waking Porthos, he headed for the bathroom, turning on the shower to let it get properly hot. There was a basic wash kit in the cabinet and, hunting out some nail scissors, he trimmed his beard then shaved and cleaned his teeth. Joyfully he climbed into the tiny cubicle and stood under the spray, soaping every nook and cranny to scrub off the ingrained dirt. Having had to suffer hurried strip washes for so long this was turning out to be the best day of his life -- post war that is.

"Hurry up." Porthos banged on the door. "I don't wanna know what you're doing, but you'd better finish it quick."

With a sigh, Aramis gave up his rights to the shower and wrapped himself in a towel. 

"It's misty in here," complained Porthos. "How am I supposed to shave?" and, just like the old days, Aramis flicked a finger at him through the open doorway.

After drying off with scratchy army terry cloth, he pulled on a pair of military issue pants and socks and then, like a good little resistance soldier, donned the faded combats and t-shirt. Was this how they recruited new members? Bribing them with freshly laundered clothes, it had to be said, was not a terrible idea. He was loathed to put clean feet back into his own dirty boots.

"Come _on_ ," he said, hustling Porthos along as his stomach began to kick up a racket.

"I look like a prat," said the big man as he glared at his reflection in the mirror. "Like some private thug for hire."

Aramis begged to differ. To his eyes, Porthos looked bright and alert and upright. In fact, he could sing out with happiness because Porthos looked, once again, like Porthos. “Never mind the outfit, you moron,” he joked, nudging him in the ribs. “Breakfast is calling and I’m running all the way there.”

Following their noses, they raced across the parade ground and into the main building, the aroma of fried food leading them directly to the mess.

The hall was not as busy as Aramis had hoped it would be. He and Porthos collected plates of egg and bacon and cups of coffee then joined Lieutenant de Larroque at a table near the door.

"Where's Athos?" Aramis asked.

"He doesn't do breakfast before eleven; it's far too plebeian," she said with a smile.

"There aren't many troops here," commented Porthos, looking around the room. "I thought this was supposed to be an army."

"There are probably a lot more pockets of resistance on the continent," suggested Aramis.

Ninon stared down at her bowl of tinned peaches and remained steadfastly silent, only looking up when Athos took a seat at the table. "The captain wants to see all three of you in his office," she said.

"You could at least have waited until I'd finished my coffee." Athos looked gloomily into the dirt brown waters of his mug. "How did he take the news about the tunnel?"

"Worse than you expected." She pulled a face.

"That good?"

"My ears are still ringing."

"Damn," he said, getting up from his chair. "Well, gentlemen, it seems we have a debriefing to attend."

As they followed Athos through the main corridor and up the plushly carpeted staircase, for the first time Aramis could see that monumental attitude slipping away as the man paused, with fist raised, at the oak door. The commander must be a total curmudgeon if he could melt this particular block of ice.

"I think someone's in the shit," whispered Porthos.

"Come in," said a voice when Athos finally steeled himself to knock.

Something about this was familiar. The CO was standing with his back to them looking out of the window.

"I believe you know these two strays we picked up in Paris," said Athos.

The man turned and immediately Aramis was flooded with warmth and comfort and _hope_.

"Captain Treville!" cried Porthos and then he remembered discipline and rank and saluted his former commander with pride.

"Porthos, Aramis. You don't know how good it is to see you boys. I feared the worst. I didn't think there was a Musketeer left in France."

"There isn't, sir. We're all in England," grinned Aramis, hoping that he'd judged things right and could fall back into the ways of the old mob.

"Same old Aramis." Treville smiled paternally and perched at the edge of his desk. "You've had a hard time, I hear. Porthos, you've been ill."

"I got the lurgy, sir, but I'm on the up and up, thanks to my main man here."

"Amazing news, isn't it, Athos? A game changer, in fact." Treville's voice hardened.

"Potentially."

"And yet you decided to drag them off on an unnecessarily dangerous escapade which had no merit to it whatsoever."

"I dispute that. You have no idea what the situation is like over there. The main tunnels needed to be closed down and these two had the expertise."

"I have ears, young man. Lieutenant de Larroque keeps me informed every step of the way."

"Bloody spooks."

"Athos," barked Treville. "I can have you up on a disciplinary sooner than you can blink."

"And what would that achieve?"

"About as much as you're achieving right now."

If asked later, Aramis would swear that the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees and, as he and Porthos exchanged glances, it was as if Treville suddenly remembered their presence.

"You two are dismissed," he snapped.

Leaving the room smartly, they waited outside in the corridor, unsure what else they were supposed to do.

"Awkward," said Porthos, raising his eyebrows.

Aramis looked at him and shrugged. They may as well have still been in the room for all the good a door was at soundproofing.

"Three weeks you were over there this time."

"Because I had to find some research material from the Sorbonne."

"Ninon could have collected anything you needed."

"And who are you to decide that, _Captain_?"

"If you're attempting to pull rank on me, Athos, don't bother. Remember where you were when I found you."

The voices went quiet.

"I think they've killed each other," muttered Porthos, when the outsize clock on the wall ticked its way from a quarter past to half past nine.

"I think you're right." During his whole career in the military, Aramis had never been in such an uncomfortable situation, and the atmosphere only worsened when the door opened and Athos came storming out.

"Whatever you say, _sir_ ," he said, gesturing to Aramis and Porthos with a flick of a raised hand. "You two, come with me."

"Athos, you will not leave the base, under any circumstances, without my permission." Treville poked his head out and glared at Porthos and Aramis. "Make sure he stays there and does some work."

"Stays where?" asked Aramis, in total confusion, as they raced to keep up with Athos who was charging down the steps of the main entrance and jumping into a staff car that was parked outside.

"Get in," he snarled and then he looked at Porthos and one of those twisted smirks appeared on his face. "Aren’t you a lucky sod. You've just won the opportunity of a lifetime."

"What?" said Porthos, clambering into the back of the car as Aramis took the passenger seat. "Why don't they tell us anything?"

Just as they were about to drive off, Ninon emerged from the building and leant in to have a word with Athos. "Treville's spitting nails, you realise."

"As am I."

"He'll be spitting even more when he finds out you've taken his car."

"I know." Athos was clearly untroubled by this.

"No more active missions, mister," she warned. "We're running out of time."

"I had nothing left to work on, Ninon, you know that."

"And now you do." She glanced at Porthos.

Expecting Athos to deliberately defy Treville and leave the base, Aramis was surprised when they drove further into the compound, rounding the bend and racing under an arched brick bridge with buddleia shoots growing out of its crevices, then on through a passcode secured gate. Aramis looks out at fields of solar cells stretching as far as the eye can see, glinting in the sunshine as they powered the base, and he wondered at the futility of it all. The technology might still be functioning, but the people certainly weren't.

As they rounded the corner, the building standing before them was completely at odds with its surroundings -- an expanse of grey corrugated steel and pipework that would look more at home in a nuclear power station than contained within acres of woodland and fields.

"What _is_ this place?" asks Porthos, looking up at it in amazement.

Ignoring the question, Athos posed one of his own and aimed it at Aramis. "How much research have you done?"

"Not a lot." Aramis shook his head. "As little as I could get away with to be honest. I always preferred the idea of helping people."

Athos pulled up outside one of the steel shutters and, without another word, got out and walked over to open up a covered electronic panel, into which he keyed in a lengthy code.

"I'm not sure, but I think you might've put your size ten in it there," said Porthos. "Matey seems even less friendly than usual now, and that’s impressive."

Aramis wasn't about to disagree. Clumsily done, he thought as he and Porthos joined Athos to watch the shutter roll upwards. "I believe I owe you an apology," he said quietly.

"Why? What for?" Athos stepped inside the lobby and flinched visibly as the lights automatically flickered on. "To answer your earlier question, this is the Chemical and Biological Experimental Research Facility." He punctuated his words with a flourish of his hand, entirely incongruous with both his personality and this place in which they were standing. "Welcome to Hell. Mind you don't step in a pile of anthrax."

He strode off down a never ending corridor, fluorescents blinking on as he entered each new section and, once again, Aramis and Porthos were forced to chase after him.

"Is it just me or is he suffering from a touch of the crazies today?" muttered Aramis.

"If by, today, you mean, every day, then yes," said Porthos. "Still, Treville seems to trust him."

"If, by trust him, you mean, hate his guts, then yes," said Aramis. "How long _is_ this corridor anyway?"

"Stay out of all labs on the right," said Athos. "That's the dirty side and I have no desire to watch through the glass as buboes erupt all over your pretty selves."

Aramis wondered at his own mental state when the only word he focused on from that sentence was the _pretty_.

“This is where we work," Athos said, indicating the door at the far end. "The big man is the lab rat and you." He slipped an arm fleetingly around Aramis' shoulder. "Have the honour of being my delightful assistant."

"Doctors and scientists ruining the world?" said Aramis, misquoting Athos from the previous day.

"Point being?"

"You said you worked for the UN." For some reason Aramis had romanticised it, imagining Athos on horseback leading peacekeeping missions in far away countries.

"I did. Specifically the World Health Organisation." Athos opened the door to the laboratory. "No suits and boots necessary. Gloves at all times, please."

"Ah, so that's why Treville needs you here." Things were slowly beginning to make sense.

"Actually, Treville needs _him_ here," corrected Athos, pointing at Porthos. "All the phlebotomy equipment is housed over there in the cabinets." He turned to Porthos. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to need a lot of blood from you. You'll probably have some nice bruises depending on how good Aramis is at taking samples."

"Why are we doing this?" said Porthos.

"Because you're the only person we know of who's recovering from HC33. It seems that your body is managing to engineer its own cure." Athos smiled genuinely. "You, my friend, are a walking miracle and the key to developing an antiserum."

"Oh," said Porthos, looking surprised. Then he broke into his trademark mile wide grin. "I always knew I was special."

In so many ways, thought Aramis with a fond look.

"Right," said Athos, heading for the door. "You start preparing the samples; I need a cigarette."

"Where’s he gone?" said Porthos, thirty minutes later when he was sitting there with his elbow crooked and a cotton wool swab pressed over the wound.

"He's probably run off home to France," said Aramis and then his face dropped. "Treville'll court martial us if we lose him. I'd better go search."

At first Aramis had no idea how to find the man, but then it dawned on him that the timed lights acted just like a trail of breadcrumbs. With a few misses they eventually led him to the pharmaceutical stores in which Athos was hunched up on the floor in the far corner of the room, surrounded by containers of drugs.

"I can't remember the name for Xanax," he said desperately and he was shaking like a leaf. "I think I could try fluoxamine, no fluvoxamine," he corrected, running his fingers through hair that was damp with sweat.

Aramis knelt in front of him, taking both trembling hands in his. "Quiet now. Everything's fine. Have you had your clonazepam?"

Athos shook his head and Aramis fumbled inside the pockets of his leather jacket until his fingers closed around the small container. "First things first, take these. How many?" 

"Three, but they don't work."

Aramis shook the pills into his own palm then transferred them to Athos. "One step at a time."

"How am I supposed to do anything in this state?"

"Does Treville know?"

"What a mess I am? Yes, he's aware." Athos popped his pills and laughed bitterly. "We do what we must," he said in a fair impersonation of the captain.

Aramis rubbed comforting circles into iron tense muscles that felt as if they were carrying the weight of the world. "That's good," he said soothingly as Athos shuddered in a breath and his shoulders dropped.

"I truly can't do this," the man said now that the anxiety attack was on the wane. His expression was one of despair and Aramis understood that emotion all too well.

"We do what we _can_ ," he murmured, leaning forward and looking into pain filled eyes. "We'll go back to the lab and we'll synthesise samples and we'll stare at them under a microscope while answering every ridiculous question a bored Porthos will come up with." He took a risk and ruffled Athos' scruffy hair. "And believe me there will be many."

"Thank you," said Athos.

"You're welcome," said Aramis. "Now we must get back to Porthos, or he'll think we've joined the Foreign Legion."

"We can't. We're French." Athos slowly got to his feet, exhausted from the effects of adrenaline and drugs.

Sometimes Aramis looked at him and heard the tick, tick, tick of a time bomb. "Allow me a little poetic licence," he smiled. "I'm a romantic at heart."

"Where've you been?" demanded a bad tempered Porthos on their return.

"Did you worry we'd run off together?" laughed Aramis.

"No, I did not," said Porthos grumpily. "I thought you'd left me, like a lab rat in a maze, trying to find my way out of here."

"We wouldn't do that you," said Aramis.

"He would." Porthos flicked a cotton swab at Athos who was loading the centrifuge with test tubes.

"Only if it served a purpose," said Athos. "Or entertained me for a while."

Hours later, they'd achieved nothing and Athos was snappy and unfocused. "Call it a day," he said, chucking his gloves in the bin and scrubbing his hands for so long they must be close to bleeding.

A long time habit from dealing with virulent diseases, thought Aramis. "At least this isn't infectious."

"It might be a blessing if it were," said Athos in a monotone.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't that late, somewhere around midnight Aramis would have guessed at a push, but it was so quiet that everyone must have been holed up for the night in their quarters. All he could hear was the eerie barking of a dog fox way off in the distance.

"What’re you doing out here?" said Porthos. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Aramis was sitting on the grass bank behind the barracks, smoking a cigarette he'd pinched from Athos' pack earlier and gazing out across the fields.

"There's nothing wrong with the world from here," he said. "You can look for as long as you like, but all you see are stars and trees. It's only when you stare a little more closely at things you can tell it's all fucked up."

"What's up, 'Mis?" Porthos sat down next to him, his arm stretching out and dropping down over Aramis's shoulders.

"Don't call me that," snapped Aramis, stubbing out the cigarette angrily as he rewound back through the last three months: slowness, sickness, anger. _Impaired cognitive ability_.

"What the fuck?"

Porthos attempted to pull his arm back, but Aramis hung on tight. "When you were ill that's all you ever called me. I treasured every time you said it because I knew one day you'd wake up and you wouldn't know who I was."

"I'm getting better. I'm good."

"I know you are." Aramis squeezed Porthos hard, just to make sure he was real. "But when I looked at those samples today I could see the virus inside your cells and I was so scared. I _am_ scared. I'm so fucking terrified I'm going to lose you."

"Aramis." Porthos spoke his name in this slow exhalation of breath and Aramis looked up and saw everything he ever wanted right here in this man. Everything he always wanted, but never realised until now.

Their first kiss was a nervous brush of lips, but it soon deepened into something much more as they fell back onto the grass and drowned in each other.

"What do we do now?" Aramis was blissfully happy, but as shit scared as he had ever been. This was Porthos. This was _important_. He closed the gap between them again, desperate for more of those kisses.

"I think we should go to bed," said Porthos gruffly, cutting to the chase in that honest way of his.

The short journey back to their room took far too long. The bed, when they got there, was far too small and neither of them were experienced enough to do more than kiss and rub each other to a frenzy. Afterwards, bereft of nakedness and touch for so long, Aramis couldn't, _wouldn't_ let go. "I love you," he said, unafraid of his emotions.

"Love you too," muttered Porthos.

 

\---

 

Their relationship wasn't exactly a secret, but neither did they broadcast it around the camp. The tie between them had always been the strongest of bonds and, perhaps, to the outside world, little had changed. To them, however, everything was new and magical. Every innocent touch was exciting. Just a simple smile from Porthos could make Aramis greedy for the man. They were heady days indeed.

Three weeks had passed since they first started working on the antiserum and, so far, not an ounce of worthwhile data had come of it. Some days Athos was a pleasure to work with. Other times, like now, the man was a nightmare. Instead of packing the equipment away at the end of yet another fruitless session, he was halfway into a hazmat suit, cursing like a hellion, and ready to rip anyone's head off who came too close.

"What are you doing?" said Aramis.

"We've run out of glutaraldehyde; there's none left in the store so I need to go in there and get some." He pointed to one of the no go laboratories and pulled on the boots. "Is that okay with you?"

"No, as a matter of fact, it's not," said Aramis in a steady voice. "The suits, I'm betting, haven't been safety checked for years. Any amount of equipment in there could be corrupted. I don't see the point of getting hantavirus or bubonic plague just for the heck of it. Think again."

Athos sat for a minute, head in his hands. "The public health lab near the camp," he said, taking off the hazmat gear and putting on his boots. "They'll have some. Fancy a trip?"

Aramis looked at Porthos and shrugged. It would be good to get off camp even if it was only a few hundred metres away. "Can't see why not."

"Come on then." Athos was already halfway out of the door.

"Stir crazy," laughed Porthos.

"And you're not?" Leaning against the door frame, Athos folded his arms and smirked.

"Didn't say that now, did I." Porthos grinned. "But I'd much rather go to the pub."

It really did seem like an outing, the way all three of them were laughing and mucking about on the way to the jeep and, even after telling the soldier at the guard post where they were going, it still had that feel about it of playing truant. Probably because Treville had specifically ordered them not to leave camp.

The PHL building was an imposing thirties monstrosity, boarded up and disused, but still powered from the nearby solar fields. As they jemmied off the sheets of steel that were blocking the door, Aramis took his first look inside at the enormously high ceilings in the grandiose vestibule.

"It's not all like this," said Athos.

Most of the building consisted of old fashioned laboratories, one after another, connected in rows. It was eerie inside with the blacked out windows and everything still on the benches. Just like a holiday weekend.

They needed to find the stores, get what they wanted and get out, but skiving made all three of them behave badly, amusing themselves by switching on the gas taps--in the unlikely circumstance that there was ever any supply again--and generally being vandals. This kind of hooliganism palled quickly for anyone but a teenager and they soon hunted out the store rooms deep within the building.

"Here," said Athos, taking a litre container off the shelf and loading it into his rucksack. "This'll last a lifetime. Now we can get out of here and you can do whatever it is you do together when you’re off duty."

Aramis was pretty certain that was a confirmation that Athos knew they were lovers. "What about you?" he said. He was never entirely sure what Athos did with his time off. Probably stared grimly at bottles of whisky.

"Shh," said Athos, his left hand raised. The Glock was out of its holster in his right.

"What?" murmured Porthos, by now also armed and ready.

All of a sudden they were swathed in a blanket of darkness. Oh fuck, thought Aramis as he heard this sudden intake of breath from beside him. "It's okay, Athos. Just the power failing is all."

That was, however, a fairy story no one was going to believe, because from down the corridor was coming that hideous shuffling sound, only this time it was accompanied by the distinctive screaming of a mob of ferals. They must have swarmed in after them, knocking out the electricity supply as they went. "Stay quiet and they won't know we're here," said Aramis, feeling for the door and pushing it closed an inch at a time until the latch snicked into its housing. Next to him, Athos was shaking. "Listen to me. Take your pills and close your eyes. Nothing's happening. Nothing at all."

"Left them back at base."

Fuck! The noise was growing to a crescendo: a heaving, panting, screaming sound that set Aramis' teeth on edge like the screech of chalk on a black board. 

"I have to get out of here now." Athos enunciated each word carefully and Aramis reached for the man, pulling him into the safe space between him and Porthos. "I have to," he said and with that he made a sudden dive for the door. They restrained him with millimetres to spare and secured him between them.

"What're you doing?" hissed Porthos. "You nearly had us bloody killed there."

Aramis opted for soothing rather than seething. "You're fine, Athos. Listen to me; nothing's happening."

"Please." The word turned into this keening whine that was somehow more frightening to Aramis than the _diseased_ outside the door.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Porthos, confused and angry.

Athos sank to the floor, gun clattering away from him. Too loud, thought Aramis as he went with him, retrieving the Glock and passing it to Porthos. Christ, this was one fucked up situation. "PTSD," he said, by way of explanation.

"What're we going to do?" asked Porthos.

"Wait it out," said Aramis. "It's all we can do."

He could’ve kicked himself for being so lackadaisical. He wanted to kick Athos more, the stupid, irresponsible prick. Why had they left the Kalashnikov in the jeep? How had they forgotten that the world was a desolate wasteland disguised as a country village? 

Feet were drumming across the floor now. There was a ripping, a tearing, a wave of screaming and all those things had to do was twist that small metal handle and they'd be in here. Darkness smothering them, all three men were blind to the horror on the other side of the door, but Athos' panic was infectious. Aramis could feel it in the tremble of Porthos' muscles. He could taste it in the bilious gnaw of his own stomach. "They'll go soon," he said, trying to inject some confidence into his voice.

Maybe it was a day later--probably more like an hour--when the tidal wave of footsteps became an intense scrabbling at the walls and door.

"How much ammo?" Aramis asked in an undertone. He reached across Athos to squeeze Porthos' leg.

"A full clip in each."

Aramis had the same in his pistol. "See you in Heaven."

"Or Hell," said Porthos. "Whatever happens, it can't be worse than this."

The clatter of gunfire, ricocheting down the corridor, was the eventual answer to Aramis' prayers. "Oh, thank Christ." Someone had found them. He imagined the bodies of the _diseased_ disintegrating into shredded flesh and he wanted to hate the idea, but he couldn't. Athos lay next to him, unresponsive apart from the fast rattle of breath. "Just a while longer and then we'll be out of here," he said as a comfort to them all.

When the shooting stopped and the sound changed to that of doors being kicked in, Aramis turned the latch and peered out into a glare of torch beams.

"Captain, over here," said a voice. It could be anyone speaking; Aramis was half-deaf from gunfire.

Treville's face was eerie in the under-light. "Where's Athos?"

Aramis waved his pistol in the direction of the curled up body on the floor. 

"He's a fucking liability," snapped Porthos.

Passing him the torch, Treville knelt next to Athos and dragged him into his arms.

"If we're supposed to keep working with him then someone's going to have to tell us his what his bloody problem is," continued Porthos as the lights came back on: too harsh, too bright, illuminating the massacre in its unabridged horror. "This is impossible."

Treville leant against a supply cupboard with Athos slumped diagonally across him, back resting against his chest. "He was in the subterranean levels of New Bastille when the first wave of bio attacks hit Paris," he explained. "It was three weeks before we could return to the centre of the city and start clearing and a couple more still before we got to New Bas. The pathogens hadn't reached the underground cells but the _diseased_ had. It was months before he'd say a word." Treville was stony faced. "You've got your story, now leave us to it."

Aramis felt sick as he walked along the corridor that once was covered in grey linoleum and was now painted in a crimson slurry. Perhaps he and Porthos _were_ the lucky ones, part of the battle to hold the border against a never ending onslaught of Alliance troops.

"What d'you make of that?" said Porthos.

Aramis wasn't sure what to make of anything. New Bastille was built by the old regime to house high security prisoners -- dissidents fighting for a cause. He was left with more questions than answers, but at least he understood the triggers a little better. "I think I should go back and get the glutaraldehyde." It's what they came for and Athos, when he was himself again, was going to be extremely pissed off if they left without it. 

Their former bolt hole was silent and Aramis assumed it had been vacated, then, just as he was about to enter, he heard quiet words coming from within.

"I'm furious with you, Olivier. Once again you go off on some bloody fly by night scheme, practically unarmed, leading those boys into danger without a care for anyone."

"Sorry."

"If the guard hadn't detected extreme activity in the area and told us you where you were then we'd never have known."

"I didn't think."

"Well _I_ did." There was a pause. "I thought I'd lost you." 

The captain's voice had softened into something that was terribly out of place here--not what Aramis was expecting--and deciding that now wasn't the time to barge in, he did a silent about turn and located another storeroom and another container of the solvent. Job done with no interruptions necessary.

 

\---

 

From then onwards, Aramis watched Athos and Treville whenever they were together. There was no indication of any kind of closeness between them, rather the opposite in fact, and after a while he was certain he’d misinterpreted what was simply the captain's concern for the welfare of his men. Then, one evening, he and Porthos were taking a roundabout and rather drunken route home from a night at the mess when they caught the tail end of an argument taking place in an office in the disused east wing of the main building.

"You are _not_ going back over there."

"You have no say in the matter, Treville."

"Oh, it's Treville now, is it?" 

The sound of a tussle invited both Aramis and Porthos to stand on either side of the door and spy into the room. The Captain had Athos pushed down over a desk, the fingers of one hand work at the fastenings of Athos' combats, the other was tangled into his hair. "You go to France and you're signing a death warrant for us all. You know that."

Athos keened with desire as Treville pushed down his trousers and underwear and the sound may have been in the same register as that whimper of fear, but it was a world away from it. "I do what I want."

"Really. Do you want me to fuck you?" Treville reached around to grind his fist down over Athos' cock.

"Mmm."

"Say it then and say it nicely."

"I want you to fuck me."

"Try harder."

"Please fuck me."

"Good boy." Treville stroked a hand possessively down Athos' back as he thrust viciously inside then curved over him to lick kisses onto any patch of exposed skin he could reach. 

The gasp of pleasure this elicited sent a tumble of excited shivers down Aramis' spine. This was the single most erotic thing he had ever witnessed: the savagery of the sex combined with such a huge amount of tenderness and caring.

"Aramis," breathed Porthos in that wanton way of his that made Aramis hard in an instant. He was torn; part of him wanted to play voyeur a little longer, but if he did his senses would take leave of him and he’d undoubtedly do something stupid.

They almost made it back to barracks, but then Porthos stopped dead in his tracks. "Fuck! The way they needed each other." He shoved Aramis against the breeze block wall and dropped to his knees, tugging down Aramis' clothes and taking him into his mouth with a groan of pleasure.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a frisson of excitement in the air when a Land Rover, driven by Lieutenant de Larroque, pulled up outside the front entrance. Life on camp, for those stuck there, was duller than the murkiest of ditch water and any distraction from the daily grind was good.

Captain Treville emerged to greet the arrivals with a gaggle of interested faces following him, Aramis and Porthos included. "Mme Bonacieux," he said. "A pleasure as always."

"Likewise, Captain," said Constance. "I've heard so much about this place and I thought it was high time I saw it for myself." An exhausted young man emerged from the rear of the vehicle and stood next to Constance. "This is d'Artagnan," she explained. "He's been getting himself into a lot of trouble with the Guard and I thought it might be a good idea if he kept his head down here for a week or so."

"I assume you've been causing trouble also?"

Aramis was always unfailingly amazed by Athos' inherent ability to appear from nowhere.

"Of course, Athos," said Constance with a fond smile. "Have you ever known me any other way?"

Aramis noticed d'Artagnan look up at the sound of that name then turn to view its owner who must have built up quite a reputation within the resistance -- a modern day folk hero.

"And the real reason for the sudden exit?" said Athos.

Constance sighed. "After the occupation Richelieu offered Bonacieux and I an apartment in the Palais. I couldn't stand the idea."

Athos quirked an eyebrow. "It would have been an incredibly useful position to be in, espionage wise."

"Constance is not a spy, Athos," snapped Ninon.

"But you are. Perhaps you should infiltrate Richelieu's bedroom instead. Isn't that what female agents do best?"

"I'm tired, so I'm going to ignore that comment," said Ninon, glaring at him. "I'm going to show these good people to their quarters and then I'm going to sleep the clock around. After that I may or may not kill you."

The three exhausted travellers climbed back into the Land Rover.

"Why are you such a prick sometimes?" asked Porthos, rounding on Athos as soon as the vehicle was out of sight.

"Ninon knows what I'm like," said Athos dismissively.

"You keep up this performance then one day, when you're relying on someone to help you out, there'll be no one left in the queue." Treville leaned in close. "Remember what I said, Athos. Mind it well."

"I hang on your every word, Captain." Athos stubbed his cigarette out and headed for the jeep, summoning Aramis and Porthos with that customary flick of his hand. "To work, gentlemen."

"Do you sometimes get the idea he thinks we're his servants?" grumbled Porthos as they followed their leader.

But Aramis knew a cover when he saw it. He could hear the tick, tick, ticking louder than ever.

The facility was hot and stuffy; the air conditioning was broken and the engineers hadn't had time to source the gas to fix it yet. Summer had come too early for them all.

Athos was a mess, fidgety and haphazard in his reasoning, unable to look into a microscope for more than thirty seconds without wandering off to have a cigarette.

"I can't help you if you won't talk to me," said Aramis, catching him by the arm as he was off on walkabout yet again.

"It's no good," said Athos, shaking him off. "I can't do this without a brain." He tapped his temple angrily. "I can't get my brain back until I stop taking the fucking pills. I can't stop taking the pills because I'll go crazy." He pulled his arm free from Aramis's grasp. "How can you possibly help me, doctor?"

The problem was that Athos was right. He needed to come off the clonazepam, but that would be a slow and painful process. "First thing we do is leave, because it's entirely pointless being here if you can't concentrate."

"That's something I could go along with," said Porthos, wiping the droplets of sweat from his forehead.

"There is one good thing we discovered about this place." Aramis exchanged a grin with Porthos. "Apparently they were doing a lot of research into medical grade cannabis."

"We found the evidence," said Porthos. "We may have borrowed it."

"Requisitioned is a better word," said Aramis.

Athos didn't take much persuading -- any in fact. The woods surrounding the facility were deep and dappled with sunshine, and only an idiot would rebel against lying in the cool foliage on a day like today.

Armed with bottles of water they retreated outside to Aramis's world where nothing existed other than trees and sky. The doctor in him was also hoping a little talk therapy might help them all unwind.

"This is nice," said Athos, lying back in the long grass and using his jacket as a pillow.

"And this'll make it even better," said Aramis, passing him the first joint.

"Just like being a student again." Athos sucked in a deep hit and passed it along.

"Never had that luxury," said Porthos, taking a drag. "Joined the infantry soon as I was old enough. Saw the world though, before it was destroyed. Then I was drafted into the Musketeers and never set foot outside France ‘til I came here."

Athos nodded. "I took a gap year during university and volunteered with Médecins sans Frontières." He inhaled and his voice deepened a notch from the smoke. "The war was building, politicians fighting over oil, and here were these people in Rwanda who'd suffered more than anyone and had less than anyone and they were willing to share _everything_. They were happy."

"It's like Congo," said Porthos. "I was out there as part of a peacekeeping mission. Fantastic folks, but their ten year old kids were dying as soldiers. World's been a fuck up forever."

"Absolutely," said Athos, taking the joint from his fingers.

Aramis was pleased to see Porthos and Athos finding some common ground at last, but he _had_ hoped for something a little less grim to bond over. "I was going to be a priest," he said, taking a hit from the second spliff.

Porthos choked on his water. "You what?"

He had this wicked grin on his face and Aramis hoped he wasn’t thinking of role playing scenarios.

"Seriously?" Athos smirked.

"My parents wanted me to go to the seminary and I was all packed to go, but then I changed my mind at the last minute. They weren't happy."

"My parents didn't give a damn what I did," said Athos.

"I didn't have any parents to give a damn," said Porthos. "Least you had money for gap years."

Athos looked at him with half-lidded eyes and then something extraordinary happened and he actually began to laugh, real belly laughing, the kind that eventually hurts. "That I did," he gasped as he curled up on the grass. "A fucking mountain of it too, if I'm honest."

"Show off," said Porthos good naturedly.

Aramis was even more intrigued by Athos now he was finally getting to know parts of him. "So it was because of Rwanda that you joined the World Health Organisation."

"Yes. I finished med school then did fieldwork in Africa and started my research." He fell silent. "The war began and here we all are." Rolling over onto his back he smiled up at Aramis. "So, doctor, how do you think the session is going so far? Am I mended yet?"

"It's going to take a lot more dope before that happens," laughed Porthos, who was busy licking and sticking. "Here, have another."

Time slipped away from them, talk dispersing into idle chatter and then drifting off to a comfortable silence. If only this were real, thought Aramis who was chilled out from _everything_.

The drum of hooves over soft ground alerted all three of them to a state of nowhere near readiness and, shielding his eyes, Aramis looked up to see Captain Treville on horseback. The camp's vehicle pool consisted of one staff car, the bike, the jeep, the traveller bus and two geldings and three mares. Luckily the young lad, Jacques, was good with horses.

"Do you ever think of keeping a radio with you?" said the CO.

"Not really, no," smiled Athos. "It might disturb our work."

"So I can see." Treville had a rueful expression on his face.

The captain was far from angry though, thought Aramis. He must have known that Athos was a micron away from breaking point.

"Lieutenant de Larroque and I have some urgent things we need to discuss with you regarding the situation back in France. We also need to schedule some supply runs." He held out a hand to Athos who, rather sleepily, got up from his smoothed down hollow in the grass and allowed Treville to heave him up onto the horse.

"See you later, boys," he called as Treville turned and cantered off. 

"Don't think he'll be much use at meetings today," said Porthos, sliding closer to Aramis and leaning in to dot his skin with kisses. "Mmm, you smell of sunshine."

"So do you," breathed Aramis, bending into Porthos' touch.

"Treville'd have a far more productive time if he stopped off somewhere to fuck him." Porthos was gruff with excitement.

"Perhaps he has." Aramis pictured Athos, mellow and drug happy, on all fours in the grass with Treville taking him from behind. "Probably never was any meeting."

A hand burrowed into Aramis' underwear. "You thinking about it?"

"A bit," confessed Aramis. "You?"

"Yeah."

But as clothing was shed, item by item, and they lay pressed together, licking kisses onto sun warmed skin, all thoughts of anyone else evaporated. There still existed, thought Aramis as he took Porthos into his mouth, a small piece of paradise on earth, and god help anyone who tried to take it away from them.


	6. Chapter 6

"I need your assistance," said Athos solemnly as they walked across the parade ground in their newly formed trio. "Both of you. I told Treville about the problems I'm having with the clonazepam and that I have to come off it now."

Aramis was seriously worried. Athos on benzos was a loose cannon. Athos without them? Well, who the fuck knew. "You can't. We've discussed this already."

"Unfortunately it's no longer a case of _can't_." The man looked grim and tired. "The news from Constance is bad, I'm afraid. Creeps are being herded through the tunnel by the Guard and are spreading west throughout the country. If I can develop an antiserum that works on HC33 then we may not be totally fucked--if they come out of it intact then we could have an army to fight this war--but I can't do it when I'm on clonazepam."

"And what about the PTSD? Are you just going to pretend it doesn't exist?" said Aramis, raising his voice until it was a little too loud for comfort.

Athos looked around him. "I'll thank you not to broadcast my business."

"Sorry," said Aramis., suitably chastised.

"Only the two of you, Treville and Ninon know about this, so try and keep it that way."

"She still speaking to you?" said Porthos.

"Just." Athos' lips formed that trademark smirk.

"Treville _is_ aware that a fast detox could kill you?" said Aramis. He didn't pretend to understand their relationship, but he knew that if Porthos were about to embark on something this dangerous without telling him the true consequences then he'd be furious.

"That's a highly unlikely outcome, but yes, I had to explain in detail what could happen." Athos shrugged. "I'm no use to anyone like this." He began to run through the logistics with them as they walked towards the rear entrance of the main building. "There's a disused hospital ward at the back of the east wing. It has an isolation room and there are restraints." He looked at Aramis. "I'm hoping it doesn't come to that, but you'll know if the time comes. It should be far enough away so no one can hear me. Disregard anything I say. I'm prone to talking shit at the best of times."

"Athos, don't do this, brother," said Porthos, in a low voice. "We'll think of something else."

"Short of borrowing a boat and finding a deserted island, I'm out of ideas," said Athos.

"Now that's what I call a workable solution," said Aramis. It was ridiculous, but he was now planning it in his head. He'd lost his country and his family. The only thing that held any value to him was here.

"I took quarter of a milligram less last night and the same again this morning. I'm going to aim for nine tablets today then six tomorrow etc and see how that goes. The plan is to be off them in four days and coping with withdrawal. I've written out the details. Everything's in here." Athos patted his back pack. "If anyone asks then I'm on a supply run to Bristol."

He unlocked the door to the hospital wing and they looked around at something out of the Black Museum.

"Well, this is cheerful," said Porthos. "Remind me to hold my next party here."

Taking his gun out of its holster, Athos handed it to Aramis. "Keep your weapons away from me at all times and make sure the door locked." He checked every drawer and Aramis knew he was looking for sharps. "Let's see what my hotel suite is like." 

They stepped inside what was, to all intents and purposes, a cell.

"I'd ask to change rooms if I were you," said Porthos, looking around him nervously.

"You can't stay here," murmured Aramis. "We know about New Bas."

"I was on my own then," said Athos. "This is different."

"Is this really necessary?" said Porthos.

"Hopefully not." Athos slapped him on the back. "If we just get to play a lot of poker then I'll be a happy man."

"Me too." Porthos brightened up. "Will money change hands?"

"Not a chance if the whispers from the mess are true," smiled Athos. "Your reputation precedes you."

Aramis was assessing Athos visually for any early signs of withdrawal. The man was sweaty and trembling and Aramis needed to check his vitals ASAP. "Are you sure you can cope in this room?" he said.

"I'd rather, if at all possible," said Athos.

Aramis understood. The internal walls meant it was far more secure and also safe from prying eyes. "Change into some pyjamas then lie on the bed."

Athos stripped out of his clothing and pulled on a pair of track pants and a t-shirt. "Thanks for doing this," he said genuinely.

"Should I look after this for you?" Aramis pointed to the ever present chain around Athos' neck.

"No." Athos ran his fingers over the locket. "I'd prefer to keep it on."

"Unless you try and strangle yourself with it, then okay," said Aramis. "Porthos, can you take the weapons back to the armory then bring us some bottled water from the canteen."

"Sure thing. Back in a tick." Porthos clasped Athos' shoulder. "You hang in there, bro."

"Will do," said Athos with a wan smile. "Aramis, make sure you've got the ward keys on you. If you need to sedate me, the med kit’s in my bag."

Aramis began to check vitals. "You're tachycardic and hypertensive."

"Off to a good start then."

"If you see anything strange then tell me immediately."

"Other than your face, you mean."

"Funny man."

The day passed slowly. It was fine when someone else was there, but Athos was already finding it hard to play cards or chat, to do anything other than stare helplessly at the wall. He was comforted when Ninon was visiting him. She lay on the bed and held him in her arms, talking nineteen to the dozen to him about visionary stuff until he dozed restlessly.

"Are you certain you're not together?" Aramis said, after Ninon had helped him to the latrine and then soothed him back to sleep.

She shrugged. "I remind him of his past, and he's far too complicated for me. We work better as friends."

"It seems a shame," said Aramis honestly. They were good for each other. Probably better than Treville and Athos: a relationship which seemed more than a little fucked up.

"It's how things are," said Ninon. "I'll stay here. You have a break while he's resting. No doubt we'll need you later."

Aramis was relieved to have some time to recharge. He spent it safe in Porthos' arms in their not-so-secret woodland hideout. Neither of them were in the mood for sex; they just needed to be close.

"He's a grumpy, sarcastic arse," said Porthos. "And those are his positive features."

"Agreed."

"So how has he got under my bloody skin?"

"I don't know."

"He will be all right?"

 

\---

 

Ninon, Porthos and Aramis remained at Athos' side throughout the detox. Treville was a less frequent visitor and Aramis was of the opinion that it hurt him too much to see Athos in this vulnerable state again.

The nights were the worst. When Athos was unable to sleep then depression took over and he recited monologues of self-hatred, cataloguing his faults until everyone knew them off by heart. But when sleep finally took him and the terrors set in, that was the part that frightened Aramis. He _saw_ the things that haunted Athos from that underground prison. He heard the litany of fear, and comforted Athos when he was sobbing and begging to be freed from this torture.

"Don't," said Porthos on night five when Aramis could take it no more and had an oral solution of clonazepam ready to administer. "He's been through hell. Would he thank you for sending him back there?"

Without Porthos at his side, Aramis would have collapsed. Treville, however, had no one with whom to shoulder the burden. He coped with Athos' nightmares and the never-ending hallucinations of Anne and Thomas, whomever they were. It was when Athos became unresponsive that Treville was as close to falling apart as Aramis had ever seen him.

"Olivier," he whispered desperately and then he turned to Aramis and begged: "Please don't let him disappear again."

Ninon encouraged Treville away from the bedside. "Do what's best for Athos," she mouthed over her shoulder. "I'll look after the captain." Maybe he wasn’t completely alone after all.

By the time a full week had elapsed, Athos was lucid but desperately quiet. When they talked to him it was as if he couldn't quite connect his thoughts enough to reply. He never refused food, but it seemed as if there was the same amount on his plate by the time he was finished. His sleep was only occasionally disturbed by nightmares, but he was more haunted than ever. 

Two weeks had gone by now and Athos, the moody, sarcastic bastard was still a missing person. Without seeming too obvious, they engineered time for Treville to spend alone with him in hope that this would help, but everything seemed futile. Aramis was beginning to wish for that fierceness to erupt, even if the restraints had to be used. 

Today, however, Porthos had reached the end of his tether. "Get showered and dressed," he said, marching into the iso ward and chucking a pile of clothes on Athos' bed. "It's a lovely day, so let's get outside and enjoy it."

"Your NCO roots are showing," laughed Aramis. "You're in trouble, Athos. He won't take no for an answer."

Athos didn't say no. He just looked wary as he wandered off in the direction of the hospital bathroom and when he returned a while later, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, Aramis vowed to find ways of making him eat. 

"Come on," urged Porthos when dressing seemed to be taking forever. "You don't really want me tying your boot laces for you, do you?"

"Done," said Athos a few minutes later, shaking badly from the effects of the withdrawal. Dressed to go out, he seemed less ready than ever to face the world. He was painfully thin with a beard that was running wild and surprisingly auburn against his pale skin. His eyes were unnaturally large and wounded enough to make Aramis hurt just from looking at them.

“We've got your back, bro," said Porthos as they left the sterile gloominess of the hospital wing. He had arranged for Jacques to saddle up three of the horses and bring them over to the main building. "What could be better than a day's hacking in the countryside? This place is so big we won't even have to leave the camp."

Not a bad idea, thought Aramis, but then he looked across at the nervous shadow of the man that used to be Athos and wasn't so sure. "I'll help you up," he said.

"I can do it," snapped Athos, mounting the horse whilst glaring at Aramis. "I've been riding since I was three."

"Bet you have, M Moneybags," laughed Porthos. "Bet you been skiing and yachting that long too, haven't you?"

Athos didn't answer, but hidden beneath that beard Aramis could see just the hint of a smirk. Maybe Porthos should’ve been the doctor.

The weather was glorious and the only thing spoiling the day was the view, which had changed since Aramis last looked out over the fields. In the far distance, beyond the razor wire fencing, were hordes of _diseased_ roaming the countryside.

"There was talk of electrifying the boundaries," said Porthos, holding the reins of his horse as he looked out at the massed ranks of creeps.

"They can't," said Athos bleakly. "It would effectively mean destroying our own army."

He'd spoken barely five sentences all day, but this was enough to give Aramis hope. "Eat something," he said, passing Athos a sandwich. "You need food to function."

By the time they returned the horses to the stables, Athos looked less pale and less tortured and more like the surly, bad tempered man to whom they'd grown accustomed.

"Don't go back to the isolation room," said Aramis quietly. "You don't need it and it isn't doing you any good." He wasn’t at all sure where Athos' quarters were. He doubted very much that he stayed with Treville, but maybe tonight he'd make an exception.

"Athos, you're here." Constance was bustling across the tarmac towards them with the lad, d'Artagnan, at her heels.

"The pup's still following his mistress," muttered Porthos to Aramis, a hand shielding his words from them.

"He's utterly besotted, poor boy," said Aramis, in a low voice. He might’ve sounded sarcastic, but he hoped the couple had a chance at happiness. Constance deserved to have a handsome young man lavishing attention on her.

"We thought you were gone for good, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "I'd like to have the chance to discuss conditions in France with you. Perhaps tonight, after dinner, in the officers' mess?"

"Maybe later this week," said Porthos, folding his arms.

"Are you all right, Athos?" said Constance, stepping closer. "You look peaky."

"He's been ill," explained Aramis with a pleasant smile. "Though nothing to worry about."

"That explains why Treville and Ninon were off doing the supply run. I thought it was odd that you should all be away at the same time." She reached for Athos' arm. "I hope you feel better soon."

"Thank you, but I'm perfectly fine," Athos said, stepping away from her.

She'd known him for years, his mannerisms and moods, and Aramis could tell from the concerned expression on her face that she knew something wasn't right. 

"I'm here if you need me," she continued.

He was lucky to have such a safety net, thought Aramis. 

"Likewise," said d'Artagnan, fixing his big brown eyes on Athos. "We _will_ be seeing you in the mess before long, I hope," he said as he and Constance turned to walk back across the quadrangle.

"I'm properly confused now," said Porthos, aiming a grin in Athos' direction. "That boy must be hedging his bets, because there was definite flirting going on."

"There was indeed." Aramis looked at the unwelcoming expression on Athos' face and laughed. "I wish him luck. I think he'll need it."

 

\---

 

Three steps forward, two steps back, thought Aramis as he wiped away the sweat from Athos, who was curled into a miserable ball on his bed, the carpet tiled floor covered in a sea of research papers and textbooks.

It had taken them a while to find his quarters and when they did eventually locate the room they found that he'd self-medicated with half a bottle of Scotch. Not too much for your average soldier, but a lot if you hadn't been drinking for a while.

"What did you go and do this for, you silly sod?" said Aramis, wrapping a comforting arm around Athos, his hand meeting up with Porthos who's taken up residence on the other side, squashed against the wall. The single bed was never designed for this purpose.

"I don't understand any of it," muttered Athos, in a voice slurred by the alcohol. "Don't tell Treville."

"All anyone wants is for you to get well."

"I am well," insisted Athos. "But none of this makes any sense."

"Go back to the beginning," suggested Aramis. "Think about Rwanda and Gabon and the start of your research project. Think about those people and how you wanted to change their lives for the better and the way you were going to do it."

A light that had been missing glimmered in Athos's eyes. "Thank you," he said and the kiss on the lips was barely even a touch, but Aramis felt it somewhere deeper than perhaps he ought to have done. Porthos was right; Athos had the ability to get under the skin in so many ways.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time Treville and Ninon had returned from their supply run, Athos was much better. He was still shaky and slightly chaotic from the effects of withdrawal, but inspired enough to spend hours in the research facility and the mess library, surrounded by books and scribbling thousands of chemical structures on endless sheets of paper.

"I miss the internet," said Porthos as he ate a packet of crisps and thumbed through an ancient gaming magazine. "Whatever happened to it?"

"It died through lack of love," said Aramis.

"It's still there to a degree," said Athos, pointing to a screen next to him. "This is remains of the Ministry of Defence intranet."

"The transmitters were knocked out. The servers were wiped. The satellites destroyed. Not a lot of Facebook left," said Aramis as he stared out of the window. He hardly remembered what there was to miss.

"Not a lot of people left either, I s'pose. I wonder what it's like in the Oil Nations," said Porthos. "Life might be pretty normal for them."

"Don't think about it," said Athos. "They're our enemy. It's our duty to destroy them."

"It's not that simple." Aramis looked over his shoulder at Athos. This _enemy_ he was talking about consisted of people who loved their families. People who went to work every day, just to put a crust on the table.

"It is to me," said Athos.

"Sometimes I don't know you at all," said Aramis, mystified.

"Why would you?"

"Stop being crabby with each other," said Porthos. "It's dinner time so let's all go feed our faces and get our sugar levels back to normal."

"I'll pass," said Athos, returning to his books.

"No, you won't. Not today, mister." Porthos grabbed him under the arms and dragged him out of his chair. "Today you'll have a civilised meal with us in the mess and remember how to behave in front of actual people."

"Must I?"

Porthos set him on his feet and spruced him up. "Yes, you must."

"Perhaps we spend too much time together," Athos said quietly during the short walk to the mess hall.

"Probably," said Aramis, still smarting a little.

"Doesn't mean I want anything to change," said Athos with a sideways glance.

Never one to hold a grudge, Aramis clapped an arm around his shoulder. "Me either, my friend."

The mess was noisy with clatter of plates, but the hum of conversation that normally existed in a soldiers' dining hall was missing. Aramis longed for the comforting presence of an army to back him up.

Having collected trays full of food they sat at their usual table--humans were creatures of habit--and were soon joined by Constance and her handsome shadow.

"It's good to see you here," said d'Artagnan, his eyes fixed firmly on Athos, who was oblivious as always and busy pushing the food around his plate.

Aramis kicked him under the table. "Someone's talking to you."

Athos looked up. "What?"

"Money doesn't buy manners," muttered Porthos in an amused aside to Aramis.

"Perhaps you'll join us for a drink later at the bar?" said d'Artagnan, trying his best to retain Athos' attention.

"I don't drink. It doesn't agree with me," said Athos bluntly.

"Well, a coffee then?"

"I have work to do," insisted Athos, pushing his food in the opposite direction around the plate.

"We'll make sure he's there." Aramis exchanged a look of unbridled amusement with Porthos. This was too good an opportunity to let slide.

Unlike the dining room, the officers' bar was heaving with bodies, everyone on camp hoping that getting hammered would while away time and relieve them of their worries for a few hours. The place was straight out of the Victorian era, complete with arsenic green wallpaper, nicotine stained oil paintings and a brass fender around the fireplace that had been dented from centuries of boot heels. Aramis loved it because it was so terribly English -- the England that he imagined, that is, not the reality with swarms of creeps roaming in and out of broken down pound shops and amusement arcades. 

"I've been looking for you for a long time," said d'Artagnan to Athos. 

Aramis looked at Porthos and grinned, but Porthos wasn't grinning back. He was tense, coiled ready to spring, and Aramis looked around to see what he'd missed. 

D'Artagnan was on his feet leaning over Athos. His mouth was close against the man's ear and he had a gun pressed to his temple. Aramis assessed the situation swiftly -- no safe take down possible.

"What's going on?" he asked calmly. "What do you want, d'Artagnan?"

"I _want_ to know why you've been harbouring this man for so long," said d'Artagnan. "When he was the criminal who brought the world to its knees. The traitor who killed our families and walked away from it all, scott free."

Used to this kind of situation from his army days Aramis was surprised to see no reaction whatsoever on Athos' face. 

"Let me go and get Captain Treville," said Ninon.

"No one moves," said d'Artagnan. "If anyone so much as shifts in their seat then I put a bullet in his head. Understand?"

"Understood," said Aramis. "Now explain yourself clearly."

D'Artagnan was beaded with sweat. His eyes were checking every inch of the room for signs of attack. He was losing the battle with his nerves and, because of it, Athos was in a very insecure position that was growing worse by the second. Aramis exchanged a look with Porthos. They needed to talk the boy down before he did anything even more stupid. Luckily, this was Aramis' forté; born with the gift of the gab he had always been the negotiator on the team.

"D'Artagnan, what are you doing?" Constance was distraught, and Ninon took her hand and squeezed it tightly to reassure her.

"Tell everyone who you are," snarled d'Artagnan, the muzzle of the gun pressed tight to Athos' face. "Tell them."

Athos remained unresponsive. For all Aramis knew, the shock could be sending him straight back into catatonia.

"All right then, _I'll_ tell them." D'Artagnan looked around the room and raised his voice. "I'm sure you've all heard of Dr Olivier de la Fère. Well, let me introduce you to the man himself."

It was a name infamous from recent wartime history. A name that had inspired hatred from every citizen when it was revealed what he had done. Aramis needed answers, but there was a dangerous situation to resolve and that must take precedence over everything. 

He and Porthos slipped back into Musketeer mode as if they'd never been away from it. He caused a distraction--his lighter sliding off the table and dropping onto the floor was enough--and Porthos, with the speed of a cat, leapt out of his seat, disarming d'Artagnan and securing him in an arm lock, his face pressed against the floorboards. Ninon raced out of the mess as soon as the boy was down.

The onlookers at the tables were rumbling with anger. Just the name, de la Fère, incited aggression, but Aramis managed to calm them with a raised hand and a few quietly spoken words. "We have no reason to believe d'Artagnan's story."

"Or to doubt it," shouted a voice from the bar.

"True enough," agreed Aramis, "But we should at least hear from Athos before we jump to conclusions." He looked to his friend who stared back at him with blank eyes.

"I'm Olivier de la Fère," he said without a trace of emotion.

They'd called him many things in the press when his treachery had been revealed--Dr Death, M Morte, all kinds of ridiculous alliterations--but when he was dragged off in restraints to New Bastille, without the decency of a trial and hooded like a serial killer, Aramis had always imagined a monster under those coverings. Not Athos.

"He doesn't deny it, and I've seen all the evidence I need," snarled d'Artagnan, his face still pressed against the floor.

"Let him up," said Athos in that dull voice. "I'd like to hear what he has to say."

Slowly, Porthos released d'Artagnan and he stumbled to his feet, straightened himself out and surveyed them all with an arrogance well beyond his years. "A woman I'm acquainted with, Milady de Winter, showed me documents that are absolute proof that Olivier de la Fère was the designer of HC33, and that this man, Athos, is him. I have the evidence here." Under Porthos' supervision he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wadge of papers.

"Printouts mean nothing," said Aramis, taking the sheets and giving them a cursory read through.

"He's correct. I did create HC33," said Athos.

"You're not helping your case here, buddy," said Porthos, leaning forward to speak quietly to Athos.

"Enough of this," said Treville, marching into the bar with Ninon beside him. "I'll have no kangaroo courts on my camp. Athos is _not_ a criminal. I know that for a fact because I worked with him during the war and if you believe in me then you'll give me time to clear this matter up." There was more than a smattering of disapproval coming from the churning crowd of spectators, but Treville was much loved and trusted by all and, for that, he earned them a small amount of leeway. "You six, in my office now. I'll deal with this and speak to the rest of you later."

"And then we'll put the cunt to the firing squad," shouted someone from a table near the door.

As they left the room and followed the commander up the stairs, Aramis remained silent. He and Porthos had spent two weeks at Athos' side when he was raving and careless with his words, yet neither of them had come away with the impression that they were looking after a homicidal maniac. He couldn't conflate the idea of that monster from the media reports with the man he knew.

"It would've been so much easier if he'd just fucking shot me," grumbled Athos under his breath on his way up the stairs and that was when Aramis discovered that, rightly or wrongly, he had complete faith in the bloody minded bastard in front of him.

On entering the office Athos immediately threw himself into a chair -- his usual defiant posturing whenever Treville was around.

"Are you going to explain this to them?" said Treville.

"As much as I'd love to, Captain, I'm sure you'll do a better job."

"Athos," growled Porthos. "The attitude isn't helping."

"His name is Olivier de la Fère," hissed d'Artagnan.

"My name is whatever I tell you it is," said Athos, turning to glare at the young man.

"I'll begin, shall I?" said Ninon, as collected as ever. "I was working deep cover in the east, back at the start of the Oil Nation Alliance, when I discovered they were reinstating the old Soviet bioweapons program. Treville was in command of high level anti-terror at the time and when I was extracted l passed the intel to him."

"The biological weapon they were working on was a variant of Marburg and so we drafted in the leading expert in the WHO on haemorrhagic fevers, which happened to be Olivier here," said Treville.

"And then the world fell apart. The end. Look, I'm really not in the correct mind space to deal with this right now." Athos folded his arms defensively.

Tick, tick, tick. 

"Tell _us_ ," said Aramis, leaning forward to take hold of Athos' hand. "Just me and Porthos, okay?"

Athos gripped Aramis as if he was the only thing saving him from falling off a cliff. Porthos slid his chair as close as he could get and, together, the two of them formed a protective shield.

"I thought we'd done it," said Athos slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. "Thomas and I examined the evidence over and over again. The team tested the vaccine intensely for months and it was successful every time -- the end of viral haemorrhagic fevers. You can't imagine how excited we were. I didn't care about military implications; all I could think about was Africa." He looked from Aramis to Porthos just briefly. They knew how much this meant to him.

"But something started to go wrong," continued Athos. "The genome, that had seemed so stable, was mutating and the effects of it were devastating. I told Thomas and Anne and immediately we began to destroy HC33 and erase all the research connected with it.

Instead of getting rid of the data, Anne uploaded it to the people she was really working for. Thomas found out what she was doing and he tried to stop her." Athos' voice cracked. "She injected Thomas with a massive amount of the pathogen and left him to die, but just by chance I found him in the lab. He was still cognizant enough to tell me what happened, but then he... I _had_ to kill him. I couldn't leave him like that."

"It's okay. We got you," said Porthos as Athos began to show the first signs of a panic attack.

"Who are Anne and Thomas?" asked Aramis.

"Thomas was my younger brother." He paused. "Anne is my wife."

"We had no time to do anything," said Treville. "The military police were there within hours to arrest him. Thomas was dead. Anne was missing and Richelieu was conveniently left holding all the evidence to prove that Olivier was the traitor." Treville got up from his seat behind the desk and glared angrily out of the window then he strode over to Athos, pushing in between the shield of Aramis and Porthos. "Why wouldn't you say anything to help yourself?" he said, dropping to a squat, his hand resting on Athos' leg.

"I was responsible," said Athos in a monotone.

Treville stared up at him. "You're an idiot if you think that."

"Then I'm an idiot."

"Oh, Athos," said Constance and her eyes were full of tears.

"A very moving story," said d'Artagnan, standing by the door with his arms folded. "But his truth is different to mine. Milady explained in detail how he tested HC33 on his own brother before uploading the data to the ONA."

Athos looked up, cold and quizzical. "And how would this _acquaintance_ of yours have known the details of what I had done?"

"I don't know." D'Artagnan looked less sure of himself. "I'm not certain."

"What does she look like?"

"Dark hair, green eyes, very attractive."

"A bit like this perhaps." Athos reached for the chain around his neck, tugging it over his head and throwing it to d'Artagnan.

The young man opened the locket and stared at the photograph inside then he looked up, fear taking over from defiance.

"Did you enjoy screwing my wife?" said Athos, his eyes colder than Aramis had ever seen them. "I'd get a check up if I were you. She's been around a bit, I'm told."

D'Artagnan shrank back into himself. "I... I'm..." He dropped the silver locket and it fell face down on the floor.

"I think you've proved your point," said Porthos, clapping a hand on Athos' shoulder. Getting up from the chair, he closed in on d'Artagnan. "Causes are good, boy, but when you get a bit older and a lot wiser you'll learn to look before you leap. Sounds as if she played you like a good ‘un."

Right now, Aramis couldn't give a damn about d'Artagnan and his feelings; his concern lay with Athos. "Seems your powers of reasoning are back where they should be," he said gently. Athos' hand was now sandwiched between both of his own. "I think we should leave you and Captain Treville to a long overdue debriefing."

Ushering everyone out of the office, Aramis was distracted by the locket on the floor. He bent down to pick it up and was slipping it into his pocket when he was party to the beginnings of a quiet conversation.

"I did everything in my power to help you."

"I know."

"I tried to get you out of there."

"You did, Jean. I'm here, aren't I?"

Aramis closed the door behind him, hoping that the two battle scarred men had finally gained enough peace to allow them to accept their feelings for one another.

It had been a hard day, he thought as he caught up to the rest: a hard week, a hard month, a hard few years for certain, but as he watched Ninon deep in conversation with Constance and Porthos teasing d'Artagnan he wasn’t sure he'd swap it for a different life.

"You have a bloody lot of explaining to do to those people down there," growled Porthos, encouraging d'Artagnan down the corridor with the toe of his boot. "They might shoot you instead of Athos. I might shoot you yet."

All they had to do is cure a disease, build an army and win a war then everything would be okay. And if that didn't work there was always the desert island to fall back on.


	8. Chapter 8

With redoubtable human spirit and the ability to make the best out of a bad lot, Porton Camp returned, quite quickly, to a semblance of normality. Nowadays, the world seemed a lot smaller, Aramis discovered. Other than the occasional supply run, in which they attempt to restock the shelves without killing off too many creeps, nothing of any significance happened. The calm before the storm, perhaps.

Porthos kept himself occupied getting d'Artagnan and Constance, plus any new arrivals from the continent, up to speed on their military training. The rest of the time he was either drilling the remainder of the troops, or dragging Aramis away from the labs for frequent bouts of slow and sleepy sex. The end of a long hot summer always made Aramis blissed out and lethargic.

Athos was over the worst of his withdrawal, but still carrying around a huge burden of guilt. He stayed away from the mess, choosing to spend the majority of his time at the research facility. The men weren’t threatening in their behaviour towards him, but their discomfort in his presence was palpable. As for his personal life, other than the time he spent getting wasted with Aramis and Porthos, no one was entirely sure what he did with his hours off. Aramis hoped that he and Treville used them wisely.

D'Artagnan had a lot of explaining to do. Constance was ferociously angry that he’d used her to infiltrate the resistance, but after weeks of fighting and some very vocal making up Constance and d'Artagnan officially became a couple and moved into married quarters on the camp. This pissed Porthos off no end and was the one thing about him that drove Aramis to distraction.

"Why don't _we_ get our own house? Hell, I'd be happy with our own double bed."

Aramis kissed him to shut him up. "Do you really want all the squaddies knowing our business?"

"No, but even Athos must get a decent sized bed to fuck in when he bunks with Treville."

"Perhaps you should be screwing the captain then."

"Not a chance." Porthos slid his hands under Aramis's shirt and sucked a slowly developing string of bruises onto his skin. "I wouldn't swap you for anything."

Aramis gasped at the sensation and reached around to grab Porthos by the arse, pulling him close until they were jammed hard against each other and ready to fuck. They were always ready to fuck. There was nothing that could ease the boredom of a phoney war better than vast amounts of sex, thought Aramis as he tugged Porthos towards their pathetically small but very happy bed.

 

\---

 

Far from being oppressive, Aramis was beginning to find working at the research facility a restful experience. Buried deep in the countryside, away from the camp and the noise of the parade ground, it was a haven, albeit one that was packed to the rafters with samples of every disease known to man.

"You wanted us for something?" said Porthos, charging into the lab with d'Artagnan following close behind. The boy had never been here before and looked suitably apprehensive.

"Indeed," said Athos. "Roll up your sleeve, d'Artagnan."

"You need some control samples?" said Aramis as Athos ripped open a med pack. "I could have donated for the cause."

Athos shook his head. "No," he said gravely, filling a syringe from a small vial. "I'm _almost_ certain I've eradicated the HC33 pathogens in this prototype, but I need a live subject to test it on. Bring him over here."

"No," yelped d'Artagnan as Porthos and Aramis clamped down on his arms. "Is this necessary?"

Athos was great at keeping a straight face, standing there wielding his needle, but Aramis and Porthos fell about in hysterics at the first undignified squeak and immediately let go of the boy.

"Oh, that was really funny. I'm laughing so hard," said d'Artagnan, glowering at all three men in turn.

"Yep," snorted Porthos, barely able to speak. "I can see the trickle of laughter running down your leg."

D'Artagnan glared at Athos. "I thought you, at least, were-"

"Evil?" interrupted Athos helpfully, leaning against the counter with his arms folded and that smirk right back where it belonged. "Genocidal, perhaps?"

"Shut up," said d'Artagnan and then he turned repentant. "Please. I'm truly sorry."

Athos emptied the syringe then threw it away in the sharps bin. Leaning forward he mussed d'Artagnan's hair. "I know."

"You have to allow him some fun at your expense," said Aramis. "It's only fair."

"Talking of fun, I'm here to kidnap you both," said Porthos. Athos arched an eyebrow and Porthos pulled a face at him. "It'll be Autumn soon and that means no more lounging around outside. Plus, we've still got the last of that cannabis to use up."

"I oughtn't," said Athos doubtfully.

"Doctor's orders," insisted Aramis.

D'Artagnan was looking at them as if they'd grown an extra head each.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Porthos.

"It's because we're old," explained Aramis.

"We should be gardening, or something equally boring," said Athos.

"As befits our geriatric status," continued Aramis.

"Yeah, yeah, very funny. I can see it's pick on d'Artagnan day."

"Well, there's fuck all else to do round here," grinned Porthos. "Come _on_ , people."

"Really, I musn't," said Athos.

"Oh yes you must," insisted Porthos.

"No." Athos looked at them all and, miraculously, he was smiling with both sides of his mouth at the same time. "Because I think I might be getting somewhere at last."

Porthos pulled him into an unwanted bear hug then lifted him up off the ground. "You bloody genius," he said. "All the more reason to celebrate."

"Early days," warned Athos, fighting his way free of the hug. "There's a long way to go yet, so I need to crack on."

Porthos, however, was the most persuasive man with the biggest brown eyes in the world and, having convinced Athos to leave his lair, they piled outside, with d'Artagnan following on behind, bewildered by the turn of events. He was the new kid, allowed to play with the big boys for the first time, thought Aramis. 'Though he might not be too fond of _all_ their games.

"Stop sniggering and start rolling," said Athos, throwing himself into the long grass with a yawn.

"Why didn't you tell me you were getting positive results?" asked Aramis.

"Last time, if you recall, things didn't go so well," said Athos with a shrug. "Anyway, I _am_ telling you. I'm telling you now."

Aramis finished making the spliff, lit it and passed it to d'Artagnan who coughed at his first inhalation of smoke then handed it over to Athos. "That's odd."

"Just wait," grinned Porthos.

"Oh." D'Artagnan smiled as the effects kicked in a little. "Look, I'm just going to say sorry now because it'll eventually get round to me being an arse and threatening you at gunpoint."

"As a matter of fact, d'Artagnan, if it hadn't been for you bringing my research notes here to wave in my face then I'd never have got this far, this quickly." Athos smiled at him. "So, your plan wasn't that misguided after all." He took a deep drag of the joint and smirked. "My wife will be _so_ mad if she ever finds out."

"The beautiful irony." Aramis lay on his back, staring up at branches as he lit a second joint. Porthos was right; the leaves were withering with age and before long they'd fall. He wondered what lay in store for them during the dark half of the year.

"Actually, I need your help," said Athos, leaning up on an elbow. "I don't want Treville or Ninon involved yet. In fact, I think it would be best if-"

"Spit it out," interrupted Porthos. "We'll either say yes or no, buddy."

"The thing is I need test subjects." Athos scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I need you to capture a few of the creeps and bring them to the facility, but you have to do it without anyone knowing."

"Why the need for secrecy?" said Porthos.

Athos took his third hit from the joint and finally passed it on. "Because I don't want everyone thinking I'm the new Mengele of the zombie nation," he said, smoke drifting lazily out of his mouth to accompany the words.

A shiver trickled down Aramis's spine. He loathed this idea with every fibre in his body and the hint of black humour from Athos made it even more disturbing. "Except they aren't zombies, are they?" he said, rounding on the man, uncharacteristically fierce and unfriendly. "Don't sanitise this for your own benefit. These people aren't dead. They're sick and they're damaged and now you want to experiment on them."

A heavy pall of silence dropped over them, dense and claustrophobic like a sea fog. Aramis was expecting an argument, but instead Athos got to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking bleakly out in the direction of the razor wire fencing. "Then tell me what to do next, please." The unforgiving silence swirled around them. "As I thought," he said then turned and walked away.

The dead calm was finally broken by the distant sound of the jeep coughing into life. 

"They're not me, you know," Porthos said gently.

"What?" Aramis looked at him.

"The creeps he wants to test the cure on. They're not me."

"Could've been." Aramis heaved in the last breath of dope smoke and when he released it, it felt like a sob.

"I'm going to see if I can find Athos," said d'Artagnan, getting to his feet.

"Good idea," said Porthos. "We'll check in with you later."

As d'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a few quiet words, Aramis used those extra moments to collect himself. He didn't realise quite how frayed he was, and not just around the edges. Porthos was his life; it was as simple as that.

"Way to fuck up a pleasant afternoon," said the big man, sprawling out on the grass next to Aramis. "For what it's worth, I don't have a problem with the idea of testing. I know what it was like to lose my grip on reality, and if I'd had the chance of a cure, however small it was, I'd've taken it."

"You're saying I was wrong."

Porthos took hold of Aramis' hand. "Yes, love. I'm saying you were wrong."

"Damn." Aramis knew that Athos was slowly becoming a different person from the man they first met, no longer empty hearted, nor that broken shell of a human being. This hadn't been an easy ask for him.

 

\---

 

Aramis and Porthos were running out of ideas. Athos was simply nowhere to be found. Aramis even plucked up the courage to knock on the door of Treville's private quarters to ask if he was there. The captain wasn't best pleased at the question and was now as concerned as the rest of them. Ninon would have probably probably known where to look, but she was at the service tunnel trying to slow the influx of unwanted immigrants and there was no way of contacting her.

Five hours of frantic searching later they found him. He wasn’t dead; neither was he dead drunk. He wasn’t drugged out of his mind on prescription medication, or in the library drawing pictures of covalent bonds. Nor was he staring into a microscope in the lab. 

"Grand Theft Auto? Seriously?" Aramis was lost for words. There were no words for this.

"It helps me think." Athos was in the rec room of his barrack block, boots up on the table, casually beating a policeman to a pulp on the screen.

"We thought you were…" Aramis didn't know what he thought, but it was bad and it was all his fault.

Porthos was relaying the news to d'Artagnan on his walkie talkie. At the same time he was gazing enviously at the PlayStation console. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Aramis sat next to Athos and taking the controller out of his hand, he placed it on the table. Porthos manfully picked up the standard and took over.

"Gah!" Athos folded his arms. "That's the kind of behaviour that tests friendships."

"No. That happens when one friend acts like a total prick and says things that are out of order and completely unfair." Aramis slipped an arm around Athos' shoulders. "Forgive me. I was wrong."

"Nothing to forgive. You weren't wrong; you were absolutely right," said Athos, lounging into Aramis' side as he watched the gameplay. "What I'm suggesting is both ethically reprehensible and morally repugnant. Hippocrates would have me thrown out of the Asklepieion for even thinking it.” He paused. “The problem is there's no other option, so I'll talk to Ninon when she gets back and then she and I will go on a collection run."

"No," said Aramis, feeling ridiculously sentimental with Athos so comfortable jammed up against him. "However hard this is, we're a team and we all do our bit."

"All for one and one for all," said Porthos, as he stole a Mercedes.

"It seems you're an honorary Musketeer now, Athos," said a voice from above. Treville was standing in the doorway watching over them. "A word, if I may."

"Yes, sir." Athos smirked at Aramis and slid free of his arm. "I'll see you tomorrow, gentlemen," he said as he left with the captain.

"Someone's going to get some," sniggered Porthos when the coast was clear.

Aramis eyed the huge stack of games on the floor and had a feeling that, for once, it wasn't going to be him.


	9. Chapter 9

Aramis may have loathed the idea of capturing the _diseased_ , but it didn’t alter the fact that the first time they attempted to catch some it descended into farce. Corralling them into a pen they’d constructed was near to impossible; it was like herding cats. Eventually they operated a kind of sheep dip arrangement, with Porthos and d’Artagnan funnelling them through a thin passageway of fencing and Aramis having the fantastic job of sedating and restraining them at the end.

It was even more of a ridiculous experience bringing four of them back to the camp hidden under a tarpaulin, their limbs still wriggling despite the heavy anaesthesia. Why the guard didn’t notice anything odd, Aramis had no idea. They kept their new guests in observation cells on the far side of the facility. No one would ever know. No one ever came down here. It wasn’t a pleasant job keeping them fed and clean, but they did their best, sharing the tasks out evenly.

Unwilling to dehumanise them any more than necessary, Aramis was drawing blood from one of the helpless ones when she lashed out unexpectedly and then fixed her teeth around his upper arm, biting deeply into the skin. Pushing her off, Aramis finished taking the sample then returned to the lab to clean and dress his wound, thinking nothing more of it.

Three days later he was a mess. The bite was hot and throbbing with pain. His temperature was raised and he felt sick and dizzy, but, being a medical man, he was stubborn and continued to self-prescribe, hiding the worst of his symptoms from Porthos and blaming it on a bout of stomach flu.

It was only when Athos found him in one of the smaller labs about to inject himself with a massive dose of antibiotics that the truth came out. "What kind of an idiot allows himself to get into this kind of state without asking for help?" said Athos, clipped and angry as he examined Aramis' arm. He then led him into a small obs room with a bed. "Lie down."

Meek from sickness, Aramis did as he was told, hardly responding except to wince in pain as Athos gently drew the t-shirt up and over his head. After checking his vitals Athos covered him with a blanket. "What antibiotic have you been using?"

"Cilastatin," said Aramis, his voice sounding no more than a whisper in his head alongside the deafening thunder of blood.

"I'll set up an infusion of that and then do some tests to find something more specific. Back in a sec."

A while later Porthos came charging into the room. "Aramis! What the hell. Athos just told me you were sick. You haven't got it?" 

Everyone knew what _it_ meant and Aramis shook his head, too ill and too tired to explain transmission methods and what had actually happened to him. Besides that, he'd only get a telling off from the big man -- a much deserved one too. He did, however, enjoy the feel of Porthos' hand clutching anxiously at his fingers.

Within minutes Athos was back, and half an hour later Aramis was propped up in the bed with a drip in his arm and his wound neatly dressed.

"Most of the time I forget you're a doctor," said Aramis, woozy from painkillers.

Athos perched on the edge of the bed and took blood samples. "I try my best to do so also." His lips curved into one of those strange almost smiles. "I prefer test tubes to people. With a couple of exceptions."

He left for the laboratory and Porthos took his place on the bed. "That's probably as close as we'll ever get to a declaration of like," he said with a grin. "But I think you're in safe hands."

It took a week long course of antibiotic infusion until Aramis was back on his feet, during which time Treville had to be informed of the whole situation, from the positive lab results to Aramis' injury at the hands of their new guests. Athos' general good spirits indicated that the captain was pleased with how things were progressing, and Aramis often wished that he would close the gap between them enough to discuss matters a little more personal in nature, but privacy to him was paramount and Aramis valued their friendship too much to intrude.

After the biting incident, they'd raided a wild animal veterinary surgery in Dorset and now had blow darts and tranq guns with which to sedate the creeps. Safety was of vital importance, Aramis now realised. He'd been extremely naïve before. Knowing that he was safe from being infected by HC33, he hadn't considered other possibilities. The infection had come close to costing him his arm, worse still his life, and neither Porthos nor Athos would let him forget it any time soon.

Now that he was up and about again, Aramis' main job was to observe and document the physical and mental progress of the test subjects, leaving Athos in charge of the microbiological side. Now all they had to do was wait and see what this test period would yield.

"Well?" said Aramis, impatiently tapping his fingers on the counter as Athos examined the slides.

"Give me a moment." Athos stared into the microscope then moved away to one side. "You take a look."

Aramis leaned over to look through through the eyepiece. "This is definitely F1?"

"Yes."

The sample was clear. Three days ago it was teeming with virulent cells. "It works." Aramis had seen definite improvement in the behavioural side of things. Fred, as he liked to call him, was more responsive, less aggressive and here, on the slide, was the reason for those changes. Leaping out of his chair Aramis threw himself at Athos. "It fucking works."

Athos backed away, avoiding the hug at all costs, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. "No." he said anxiously. "It's far too early to say that. We have no idea what will happen in the long term. We have to establish how F1 progresses. Whether his recovery is permanent. Test it on others. We have to be certain that the genome will not mutate. This is just the first step."

"Athos, we have no time. We have to move more quickly than that. You _know_ we do," said Aramis, picking his words carefully. His fingers closed around the necklace in his pocket. He'd been holding onto it for ages, never certain whether it would help or hinder the man's recovery. Now might be the time to return it. Holding the locket in the palm of his hand he opened it up. Opposite the picture of Anne was a photograph of two young men, laughing into the camera. One of them was undoubtedly Athos, but from another life, his eyes full of fun. The other boy was more classically handsome, but not, perhaps, as striking, his eyes a darker shade of blue and his cheekbones less pronounced. "Is this you and your brother?" he asked, handing over the locket to its rightful owner.

Athos stared at the image and nodded. "He'd just arrived in Gabon that day."

Taking a brave leap into the unknown Aramis said, "And what would Thomas think you should do now?"

Athos didn't answer the question, just replaced the chain carefully around his neck and gripped the locket tight. "You remind me of him, teeming with principles and idealism." He looked up, full of grief. "He died because of them."

"No. He died because of that fucking war and your traitor of a wife." Aramis hated making Athos suffer--Christ knows, the man had suffered enough--but he had to make Athos realise that they were fighting for their lives now. "You've heard what Ninon and Constance have told us. Richelieu's a puppet in charge of Europe for the ONA. The Guard hold the tunnel. England is swamped with creeps. The Scottish have built a wall and are shooting anyone who tries to cross. Without this antiserum we've had it."

"And what if it makes things worse?"

"Athos, love, I don't honestly see that it could." The endearment felt natural. The hug that followed on from it was too, and Aramis wasn't sure whether Athos was shaking from fear, or from some long overdue outpouring of grief, but whatever the reason, Aramis would hold him for as long as he needed it.

 

\---.

 

Runs were getting an awful lot harder now. If the creeps were an organised force there'd be divisions of them massed throughout the county. They had no choice but to slaughter en masse just to get through and, because of this, ammunition was getting disastrously low. Today, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan were hitting the armories at the Royal Artillery base in Larkhill, then moving on to the Naafi warehouse at Boscombe for some basic necessities and food. When Aramis was on one of these runs he invariably hoped to discover evidence of other survivors, but so far they'd found nothing. There were stories of a few settlements to the north and east, but no one had ever made contact. Ninon had told him on the quiet that she was convinced everyone south of the Scottish Wall was either dead or _diseased_. The bio-attacks here were ferocious.

The RA raid was a success -- no creeps to deal with and supplies in plenty. There were even gallon containers of oil in the cook house which they could use to refuel. With their recently acquired truck now half filled with cases of ammo, they drove across the plains to the Naafi warehouse -- the main distribution centre for all military shops across England. 

"I reckon we should get a tank," said Porthos. "There are tons of them littered about."

"How many kilometres would you get to a litre of sunflower oil?" laughed d’Artagnan. "Mind you, they’d be good for ram raiding," he added thoughtfully.

“What use have we got for that kind of shit when we can walk in and take anything we want?” Aramis didn’t mean to sound so bad tempered, but his mood was on a down slide along with the weather. The plains were a stark expanse of emptiness, bleaker than ever now that Autumn was fully entrenched, and the sunshine that had been with them all morning was now disappearing behind a mask of low cloud.

“We were only having a laugh,” said Porthos and he sounded downhearted.

Aramis hated being the cause of his misery. He blamed his sixth sense which kept niggling at him and making him irritable. “I’m sorry. The sooner today’s over the better.” Reaching to his left, he gave Porthos a quick squeeze on the thigh.

Narrowly missing the entrance to the warehouse, he did an about turn at the next junction and took the drive that led to the stores. Approaching the building, Aramis’ spirits dipped even further. They weren't so lucky this time, it seemed. Through the mizzle, he could make out a hundred or so angry bodies milling about the forecourt.

“Crap,” said Porthos.

“Second that,” said d’Artagnan. “I really can’t be bothered with this today. I’d much rather be at home in front of the fire with Constance.”

D’Artagnan missed the look of house envy thrown his way by Porthos, but Aramis didn’t. At very least, it made him smile for the first time that afternoon.

Some of the creeps turned their attention to the truck, and with a nod of grim determination Aramis looked across at the other two men. “Got your lists with you?” he said with a grin of encouragement. “Then let’s go shopping.”

Armed with three assault rifles, it was easy work to dispatch the dozen or so that had gathered around the lorry. Getting into the warehouse wasn’t too difficult either, but throwing boxes of items into trolleys whilst gunning down creeps with a semi-automatic was becoming a ridiculous real life version of Supermarket Sweep.

Despite the difficulties, Aramis was making light work of his list when an anguished cry of, “Porthos!” had him dropping everything and running in the direction of d’Artagnan’s voice.

The kid was firing off rounds and running towards Porthos who was just standing there surrounded by a mass of _diseased_. He’d gone. Was vacant. Gun hanging loosely by his side.

Aramis and d’Artagnan launched themselves towards him, unleashing every ounce of fire power until the big man was safe and surrounded by a midden of death.

“Oh god,” said Aramis, wading through corpses to get to him: to hold on to him and make certain he was okay. “What happened, my love?”

“What? I dunno,” said Porthos, looking around anxiously. “What are we doing here?”

Aramis swallowed the sickness that rose to his throat. If Porthos went back to the way he was before then he’d put a bullet in both their brains. Without a doubt. No one would alter his course. Not Treville. Not Athos. Not anyone.

“Aramis, get him back to the truck,” said d’Artagnan, with a look. “I’ll fetch the rest of the supplies and join you there.”

“Fuck the supplies.”

“Don’t be a prick,” said Porthos. “It’s what we came here for.” 

And just like that he was back. “Jesus Christ, Porthos!” Aramis ran through every prayer of thanks he could remember as they squelched their way through the blood and guts, picking off strays as they went, until they reached the truck and climbed up into it, safe and sound. “What happened in there?” said Aramis again as soon as they were locked inside the cab. “Tell me.”

“I dunno. I was...” Porthos looked at him, as vulnerable and as frightened as a child. “I can’t be like that again, Aramis.”

“It's fine.” The soft tones of his own voice reminded Aramis of how it was months ago when they were hiding out in the cellars of Paris, with Porthos sick and angry and Aramis crooning at him to keep him quiet so that no one would find them. Never again. He pulled Porthos into his arms, determined to keep him secure at all costs. “Don't worry. I’ll make sure we’re okay.” One way or another.

D’Artagnan finished loading stuff into the back of the truck and opened the passenger door, climbing up beside them. “I can drive,” he said. “If you want.”

“I’m good,” said Aramis, dragging himself out of Porthos’ embrace. “Besides, I know the way better than you, and this fog is a bastard to navigate through.” The creeps were massing again. Aramis flicked the key in the ignition and, bumping into a few bodies on the way, they headed back to the A303.

“So, you guys are together,” said d’Artagnan.

“We are,” said Porthos matter of factly. “For a few months now.”

In truth, it had been years, thought Aramis, not able to comprehend what life would be like without Porthos.

“Not that I’m anything but happy for you,” said d’Artagnan, though it was obvious he was in a strop with them. “But it would have been nice to be told.” Then he looked at Porthos with a sorrowful expression on his face. “I'm sorry. None of that’s important right now, is it?”

“Nope.” Porthos stared straight ahead at the road.

“Athos will know what to do.” 

D’Artagnan now believed in Athos the way that Aramis, once upon a time, had an unquestioning trust in God. Whether it was an overreaction from coming so close to killing the man, or simply the fact that he knew nothing of how near Athos drifted towards the abyss, Aramis wasn’t sure. He only wished that he himself could summon up that amount of faith in something.

“I bloody well hope you’re right,” said Porthos, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder.


	10. Chapter 10

“You're right,” said Athos in an unhappy echo of Porthos’ earlier words. He leaned wearily forward over the bench with his head in his hands. “There are double the amount of active cells than the sample from last week. The only good news is that it hasn’t mutated.”

“Why haven't you been checking him every day?” demanded Aramis.

Athos sat up straight and threw him one of those sideways glances. “Why haven't you?”

Aramis had no answer to that. He was a doctor. He was part of the team working on this and had unrestricted access to the lab equipment. There was no point in trying to pass the blame. “So we use the antiserum on him.”

“You know that’s impossible at this stage. It’s not been fully tested.”

“Do you know how much I hate you when you’re so fucking cold about things,” said Aramis. “This is Porthos. Do you understand?”

Athos stared at him. “Which is precisely why I’m not going to inject him with an untested drug until I’m sure that it’s safe.”

Getting up from his seat, Aramis paced the laboratory. “Untested? How can you say that? It’s been tested time and time again.”

“Not on humans.”

“For god's sake, Athos, they _are_ human. They’re no different to you or me or Porthos. They’re just sick: sick with the same fucking disease that is slowly killing Porthos. Stop hiding from the facts.”

Ignoring him, Athos turned back to view a second series of slides, but Aramis had had enough and decided to take matters into his own hands. Removing a vial of antiserum from the refrigerator, he loaded a syringe and then, with a swift prayer, injected himself with the drug and stood defiantly beside Athos. “So, I’ve tested it for you.” He'd been left with no other choice. “Your move now, Dr de la Fère.”

The reaction from Athos was extreme and unexpected. The look on his face when he swivelled around on his chair was that of a tortured man. “Thomas.” The groan that accompanied that name was one of actual physical pain.

But Aramis was unrepentant. “No. It’s not Thomas, it's me and for now I’m fine,” he said. He was frightened to death though; he had no desire to end up a demented husk of a human being. “This isn't about you, Athos, or any of your residual guilt. We need to know now if this antiserum is safe to use, so fucking get on with it and find out.”

Athos pulled himself together a piece at a time. “Get in the obs room,” he said in a monotone.

 

\---

 

A week later Aramis was still stuck in that airless, internal cupboard. Not only was Athos not speaking to him, but neither was anyone else.

Porthos, as it happened, was downright furious. “Of all the bloody irresponsible things you’ve done, this takes the bloody biscuit.”

“I did it for you.”

“You were impetuous like always,” said the big man, tugging angrily at his beard. “It wasn’t as if I was getting any worse. We had _time_.”

Right now, Aramis was pissed off and would happily swing for every single one of the ungrateful bastards, and that included Porthos. He’d put his life on the line for _everyone_ and all he’d got for his trouble was a constant earbashing. Treville had given him the worst dressing down of his life. If the captain could have demoted him then he was pretty certain he would have come out of this a few ranks lower.

“Seven days and I’m still clear of disease,” Aramis said when Athos came in with a tray of equipment, and maybe there was a hint of the braggadocio in his choice of words and tone.

Athos nodded and put down the tray. “First things first, we may as well put you to good use, mon ami,” he said to Porthos, who might have been fuming with Aramis but that didn't mean he left his side. “Sit down.”

The big man received his first injection of the antiserum and Aramis was so fucking relieved--please God, let it work--but when Athos filled a second syringe and approached the bed, he was confused. “Why do I need another shot?” he asked.

“It’s the live pathogen,” said Athos and his face was set in a mask. 

Aramis’ stomach twisted into knots. This was a sick parody of that joke they played on d’Artagnan, only this time it wasn’t funny and no one was laughing.

“The antiserum is the best we can come up with in terms of a vaccine," says Athos, flicking the syringe with a finger. "We know it works on the creeps. We know it’s safe. We now need to know if it will prevent you from getting sick.”

“Don’t you even think about putting that in him,” growled Porthos, getting up from the chair and taking a protective step forward.

“And don’t you even think about interfering,” said Athos, with a dismissive glance sideways. “I’m only doing what I have to do.”

Aramis reached out to grab Porthos’ hand. “Athos is right,” he said firmly, preparing himself for what was about to happen. “It was my decision to do this. The consequences are mine.”

When the needle entered his arm he was as hot and as nauseous as if a thousand tendrils were coiling themselves around every corpuscle. He knew it was a psychosomatic reaction, but that didn’t stop him from feeling every single cell in his body being invaded by the virus.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now I’m going for a cigarette,” said Athos, walking out on them without a second glance.

Aramis was overwhelmed by a poisonous concoction of grief, sorrow and fear. “I hate what this is doing to us all,” he said and the sentence devolved into a heaving burst of sobs. 

Without need for words, Porthos wrapped him up one of those huge, comforting hugs and this time it was him doing the soothing as Aramis cried his heart out.

“If it goes wrong then we die together,” said Porthos. “I swear to you.”

Aramis nodded, burying his head against Porthos’ chest. It might be straight out of a Shakespearian tragedy, but when there was barely a world to live in and no one left to share it with, then death was the only conceivable option.

 

\--- 

 

It had been the longest two weeks of Aramis’ life. Porthos had brought a sleeping bag into the obs room so they could at least be together, if not in the same bed. Athos carried out twice daily testing on them with the air of a man who was soon for the noose. He was as pale as a ghost with bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes and, once again, it looked as if he’d given up eating for good. Aramis wished he could find some words to heal the rift that was growing between them, but until he and Porthos were out of danger then he couldn’t even think where to begin.

D’Artagnan was also struggling. He’d been left in sole charge of the _diseased_ and although they were easier to manage now that they’d all been given the antiserum, it was still a hard job to tackle on his own. He was also unused to seeing Athos, his new hero, in this lock down state of emptiness. All this, added to the fact that two of his closest friends were both at risk of dying, was enough to tip him over the edge. 

“Can you please at least _talk_ to each other,” he begged in a voice that was laced with hysteria as he watched Athos silently take blood samples. “Athos!” he shouted in exasperation.

“What?” Athos, on his way out of the door, turned back to look at him, thin lipped and angry. “Stop pestering and let me get on with this."

D’Artagnan shrugged helplessly and kicked out at a cupboard in frustration.

“He’ll come round, bro,” said Porthos, squeezing his arm.

“He better had, or I’ll kill him for real this time,” muttered d’Artagnan.

A while later, they heard raised voices coming from down the corridor -- Athos and Treville were yelling at each other.

“Come on,” Aramis said to the others. “I think we have every right to know what they’re fighting about.”

The men were in the main laboratory and, if their expressions were anything to go by, the argument was deadly serious. Aramis felt his stomach lurch with fear. “What is it?” he asked, already imagining the horror of pressing the muzzle of his gun against Porthos’ temple and pulling the trigger. "Tell us, for God’s sake."

Treville folded his arms. “Let them know.”

Athos was as stony faced as ever and Treville shook his head, frowning in frustration. “It’s good news all round, gentlemen. Porthos, your bloods are back to normal and Aramis, you’ve shown no sign of the disease developing. With that, plus the positive results from our friendly test subjects, it seems as if we’re ready to start on phase two.” He glared at Athos. “We just need to convince Olivier of this.”

Dizzy with relief, Aramis clung onto Porthos, leaning against that big solid frame for support. There would be no dreadful goodbyes. No suicide pacts. Not yet anyway.

“Count me out,” said Athos in a voice that was as cold as melt water. “According to you, I've done what was required. Now leave me alone.”

Treville heaved in a deep breath. “To do what exactly? Go off and play the hero in France again.”

“Maybe.”

“There is no France, you idiot.”

“Well, somewhere else then. Anywhere but here.” Faint from lack of sleep and hunger, Athos keeled over sideways and slid to the floor, knocking into a supply trolley as he went down, instruments flying everywhere with a clatter.

Aramis dropped to his knees next to him. He was still conscious, but deathly pale and on the verge of passing out. "Do you ever bother to eat unless Porthos and I are there to remind you?" Aramis murmured full of concern, his fingers resting over Athos’ wrist in order to count the beats, eyes glancing at his watch.

"Been busy," says Athos with a ghost of a smile and a well hidden apology in his eyes. "Had to make sure nothing was going wrong."

“Nothing _will_ go wrong,” said Treville. “Not this time. I promise you. That was a million to one occurrence last time. You know that.” He sat on the floor next to Athos, winding an arm around him and reeling him in close. “You’ve done it. Be pleased.” His hand gripped Athos’ shoulder, fingers digging in, the pad of his thumb rubbing deep into the muscle, trying to ground him. To pull him back from the edge. “Be proud, Olivier,” he said. “We are.”

With Aramis taking right flank and Porthos kneeling in front, enfolding them all in one of his giant hugs, d'Artagnan could do nothing but fall into the pack. They remained that way for a long time, piled inappropriately together in a heap, Athos half-asleep, his head lolling against Treville, the others letting the tension seep away, able to breathe for the first time in weeks.

“We’re okay,” said Aramis, smiling at everyone through watery eyes. “We live to fight another day.”

 

\---

 

They met up that evening in Treville's private quarters for a council of war over dinner. The rooms were old fashioned and a long way past jaded, but they had an air of long forgotten luxury about them with the burgundy upholstered sofas and worn Indian rugs.

"The joint chiefs of staff," laughed Aramis, looking around the room. "And what a motley crew we are."

Constance and Ninon were both there, plus, of course, d'Artagnan who had proven himself invaluable and implicitly trustworthy over the past few weeks. The only member of the team missing was Athos, and Aramis was beginning to wonder whether he had indeed turned tail and run when he emerged from another room, eyes full of sleep and his hair more scruffy than ever. The civilian clothes humanised him.

He flopped onto the sofa next to Porthos and, without asking, Treville handed him a glass of red wine. "So, what have you come up with whilst I've been out for the count?" he asked, taking a swig.

"What beer to drink," grinned Porthos, chinking his glass against Athos'.

“Good decision making,” said Athos, sprawling elegantly and kicking his bare feet up on the coffee table. “I approve.”

Privately, Aramis was hoping that would be as far as they’d get with the planning part of the evening. He was shattered, both physically and emotionally, and could do with a full year of peace and quiet in which to recover. He longed desperately to have those summer months back, when the three of them lazed about in the sun and smoked themselves stupid on dope. When they became friends. It would take a while for that chasm between him and Athos to close, he knew, even with Porthos there to bridge the gap.

"First and foremost," said Treville, "we need a safe place away from Porton to establish a rehabilitation centre for the _diseased_. That way we can run preliminary tests to see whether they have a chance of fully recovering." Treville turned to d'Artagnan. "How's that side of things going?"

"Slowly," admitted the young man. "The ferals are far more responsive. F1 is able to look after himself and follow simple orders. The D subjects are more of a problem."

“Damn,” said Treville. “If we have any chance of regaining France we need to have them fit enough to fight.”

“But the F’s are responding to treatment very well,” said d’Artagnan. “It’ll just take time.”

"And in some ways slow is good," said Ninon. "It'll allow us time to develop a suitable dispersal method for the antiserum."

"A bio-weapon," interjected Athos, topping up his glass from the bottle which had been left beside him. "Say what you mean."

"A bio- _cure_." Ninon frowned at him.

"Apples and oranges," said Athos. "While you're at it why not fill the _dispersal methods_ with anthrax and fire them at the enemy. Job done."

"Not the same and stop being argumentative," said Treville, but he was smiling at Athos rather than sniping at him. "Ninon, if you and I take a trip up to the Weapons Research Facility at Aldermaston we may find something useful."

"Good idea, Captain," said Ninon. "We also need to manufacture a massive amount of the antiserum." She held her hand up to silence Athos before he even uttered a word of complaint. "I know you need time away from the labs, so don't waste your energy shouting at me. There's a microbiologist here called Remi something or other. He turned up a couple of months ago. Said he used to work for CDC before they kicked out all the non nationals, after that he came to the Sûreté."

"I vaguely remember him," said Athos. "He's a good man."

"Excellent," said Treville. "He can set up a team and run the facility."

To Aramis’ relief, food then arrived to interrupt the council, carried on huge trays to the dining room of the apartment. Important conversation died down as they seated themselves at the table and plans gave way to idle chatter. Aramis preferred it this way. He was beginning to feel like a spare part, but he supposed it was only to be expected. Treville, Athos and Ninon had been operating as a resistance unit for years now. It had been a long time since Treville was his commander.

But inevitably, once the unappetising meal had been dished up--fresh rations were running low right now--Treville returned to topic. "Constance, I'd be grateful if you could work with d'Artagnan on rehabilitating the sick,” he said with a kindly smile. “They'll need help to remember what it's like to live normally again, and I'm sure you'll be exceptional at dealing with that side of things."

Constance lit up at the idea of being the resident occupational therapist. "I'm happy to be of use, Captain," she said, clearly most excited about being trusted.

Treville was a wily old fox, thought Aramis. He could inspire everyone to follow him to the ends of the earth.

"Porthos, you’re doing an excellent job with the training, so carry on as you are,” the captain continued. “Aramis, you were always the best shot in the regiment. Teach everyone sniper tactics. We may need that kind of guerilla approach a lot more in the future. You’re also needed as doctor now you’re free of the facility. You'll be administering the vaccine to everyone on camp.”

“Seems as if you have things all neatly sewn up, Captain,” said Athos. “And what plans have you for me?”

The question was innocent enough, but Aramis could sense the atmosphere in the room sparking with heat and growing headier by the second.

“Is it worth me bothering, young man? Do you ever obey orders?” asked Treville, leaning forward, his chin resting on his knuckles and his eyes crinkling with delight.

“I have been known to occasionally.” Athos offered the captain one of those rare smiles whilst dipping his head deferentially and looking up at him through dark lashes.

Aramis watched the flush of exhilaration rise to Treville’s cheeks and pushed away the second hand excitement that was building in the pit of his own stomach. If he so much as glanced at Porthos right now he’d be hard with need and have to drag him off, under some or other pretext, for a fuck.

As professional as ever, Treville refilled the wine glasses that were within reach and then passed the bottle down the table. “I do have plans actually,” he said, discharging the tension in the room. “I know of a remote army camp up on the plains that could be ideal for our rehabilitation centre. Tomorrow, the four of us.” He nodded at Aramis and Porthos to include them in this. “Will take the horses and ride to Westdown to see how suitable it is for the purpose we require, and also how accessible it will be by vehicle if the winter turns out to be a bad one. Salisbury Plain can be quite treacherous.”

“Sounds great,” said Porthos, whose spirits were always highest when he could expend his energy doing something physical. “I’ll have the gear ready for us at the crack of dawn.”

As soon as dinner was over, Athos took out his pack of cigarettes from his top pocket and, on the end of a pointed look from Treville, got up from the table. “Seems I’ve been banished,” he said. “Excuse me, folks.”

“Can I pinch one?” asked Aramis, his chair screeching across the floorboards as he stood up to join him. This was a perfect opportunity to begin the process of clearing the air.

“Of course, while I still have some. They’re in short supply now.” Athos kicked on a pair of shoes and grabbed his leather jacket from the coat stand.

Once outside, Aramis was glad of his ribbed military sweater. They huddled in a doorway, hands furled around their cigarettes as they attempted to shield the biting wind and light the damn things.

“I’m always apologising to you,” said Aramis, breathing in a lungful of smoke.

“Don’t. I rarely bother.”

“It has been noticed.” Aramis grinned and nudged Athos in the ribs, but the man didn’t smile back as expected. Instead he looked desperately serious.

“I have too many apologies to make,” Athos said earnestly. “When we reach the end of this road, if we’re both still alive, I’ll tell you then, honestly and truthfully, how I feel about everything. Until that day comes, I’ll keep trying to make amends, and that’s all I can do.”

Blinking away the wetness from his eyes, Aramis stubbed out his cigarette and cradled Athos’ face in his hands. Kissing him on each cheek and then, just once, softly on the mouth, he stepped back and let his hands slide downwards to rest on Athos’ shoulders. “You’re a good man,” he said. “Don’t make us forget that.”


	11. Chapter 11

Keen as always, Porthos had the horses saddled and ready to go at first light. Packs had been filled with rations and ammunition, and he’d signed out rifles and tasers from the armoury.

“What about breakfast?” complained Aramis, pleased as punch when Porthos handed him a bacon sandwich. “Tell you what,” he said as he unwrapped his prize. “Don’t think Treville and Athos will be here particularly early. Not in the mood they were in last night.”

“What mood?” said Porthos.

Aramis wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only one in the world with a sixth sense. “They were practically fucking each other on the dining table.”

“Oh,” said Porthos, with a cheeky grin. “I’m glad I didn’t pick up on that. Anyway, _we_ were in the mood and we’re still here, up with the larks.”

Indeed they were, thought Aramis with a shiver of pleasure. After months of uncertainty and fear, they’d spent most of the night re-establishing the delights of their relationship, licking and fingering and screwing each other to completion over and over again.

“That reminds me,” said Porthos. “I’m asking Treville for married quarters ASAP. If that little squirt d’Artagnan can live with his woman in the lap of luxury, then so should we.”

The MQ’s on base weren’t exactly luxurious, but Aramis wouldn’t complain about a double bed. Life was simply too short. He shut up and ate his sandwich whilst it was still hot.

“You did say early, sir,” said Porthos reproachfully when Athos and Treville finally joined them in the muster yard outside the stables, half an hour later.

“No.” Treville patted him on the back. “I said tomorrow, lad, and you added the crack of dawn part. I see you’ve done a great job getting things prepared.”

Beaming with pride, Porthos leaned in as Treville showed them an OS map of the camp they were heading for. Pointing out the location, he said: “See, it’s in a perfect position, high up on the plain and miles away from any of the villages. There’s just one pub nearby and that’s it.”

“Hopefully the only place we’ll get activity,” said Athos.

“And possibly beer activity,” added Porthos, a wide grin on his face as he ran through a final check-list with Treville to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything vital.

Mounting up, they rode out of Porton, taking the lane to begin with and then off onto a bridle path where they crossed the shallows of a river and hacked through the countryside. The journey was infuriating; there were more creeps than they expected which turned out to be a royal pain in the backside. The horses, not of military origin, were spooked by gunfire. Tasering, they discovered, attracted more of the buggers than dispatched them and Aramis’ patented technique of riding full pelt through a mob turned out to be decidedly risky when he was almost brought down from his horse, saved at the last second by some quick thinking from Treville. He received a stern admonishment from the CO for that little adventure. In truth everyone was fast losing patience.

“We should’ve taken the truck,” muttered Porthos, which earned him a black look.

“Do you know how much fuel we have left in total?” asked the captain.

“Not offhand, sir, no,” said Porthos.

“Not a damn lot, is the answer,” snapped Treville. “Though I admit I never expected it to be this difficult to ride ten miles cross country.” He looked thoughtful. “Change of plan,” he says. “We’ll detour through Larkhill.”

“Why?” asked Athos.

“Because the Royal Artillery are based there and the only weapons fit for purpose in this situation are swords,” explained Treville.

“And they have mounted regiments.” Athos tipped his head respectfully at the CO.

“With ceremonial duties."

“Doesn’t mean they’ll have any actual blades though,” mused Athos.

“They’ll have them somewhere. Hanging on the walls, or kept in the at the back of the armouries. They must have something useful in a place that size.”

"It's certainly worth checking out," said Athos. "We may have to rely on older weapons a lot more in the future."

“Knew your Cavalier beard would come in handy someday, Aramis,” grinned Porthos, interrupting the double act.

Aramis, however, was lost to his thoughts. He'd always assumed, misguidedly perhaps, that the war would end and things would return to normal, but, with a sudden rush of fear, he realised that this wouldn't be the case. The planet was out of resources, the technology had regressed and the people were all but gone. The only thing standing between modern day Earth and a rapid descent into prehistory were the isolated pockets of resistance dotted about the globe. The world, as they knew it, was over.

Porthos tapped him on the shoulder. "Aramis?"

"Sorry, yes." He blinked back to the present, recalling Porthos' words. "I'll be a proper Musketeer at last."

Away from the settlements, they moved into the vast swathes of farmland that made up most of the county and found that there was very little creep activity going on. What there was, mostly centred around the farmhouses, they could spot from a mile off and easily avoid. 

These weren’t the most pleasant conditions in which to be out riding. The wind was still a vicious beast from the east and the occasional droplets of rain felt like ice. As they approached Larkhill, Aramis was reminded of the last time he came here, when the sunshine was still with them and the plains seemed less foreboding. That day did not end well.

“Why do the creeps stick to the towns and villages?” asked Porthos as they cantered across the fields. “I don’t get it.”

“Familiarity,” said Aramis. He’d witnessed Porthos’ decline and saw the comfort he gained from things he knew well and could still comprehend. “Unless there’s a particular reason, food or people for example, then they never seem to be drawn to the more out of the way places.”

“Which makes sense, because at the time of the attacks the military bases were all deserted, with every regiment off fighting on the continent as an expeditionary force,” said Athos. “Clever man. A gold star for the handsome doctor.” He smirked at Aramis.

“So we’re safe here then?” said Porthos.

“Never assume you’re safe,” answered Treville. “Then you’re far more likely to stay that way.” He looked at his watch and dismounted. "I think we'll bed down here for the night, gentlemen. We've still got to search the place fully, and we'll lose the light by sixteen hundred, so it seems the sensible option."

Once the horses were stabled, they shouldered their packs and began a thorough investigation of the camp.

"The armoury's this way, sir," said Porthos, pointing straight ahead. "I don't remember seeing any swords in there. Mind you, I wasn't exactly looking for them at the time."

"It feels as though we're intruding," said Athos quietly as they walked across the bricked courtyards and through arched passageways of the older part of the barracks, their guns drawn in case of hostiles.

"It's a ghost town," said Aramis. They may not have died here, but the soldiers were all gone.

"It's worse further north," said Treville bleakly.

He didn't elaborate and no one asked for more information. They'd find out when the time came.

"Here," said Porthos, unbarring a set of double doors. The electronic entry system had long since been disabled. The armoury was stacked with steel lockers and off the main store were a dozen or so tightly secured cells which must house the missiles.

"Damn, I hate feeling this pathetic," said Treville in a sudden fit of negativity. "We should be able to make use of all this artillery and we can't even gain access to the shells."

Athos stood at Treville's shoulder. He was noticeably edgy inside this airless space, but strong because he needed to be. "We're not Gunners, sir, and, more to the point, this kind of equipment is of no use to us yet. We're on the lookout for swords, remember."

Treville threw him a grateful smile, full of quiet affection. "We’ll recce the officers’ mess I think. We can pick up extra ammo from here, if and when we need it.”

“And then work out how to fire the missile launchers,” said Porthos, as excited by the idea of artillery as if he was on a boy’s own adventure.

Aramis could understand it. He remembered the thrill of going to military displays when he was a child. The firing of the eighteen pounders was always the most fun part of the day.

Exploration continued, and having found the officers’ mess it turned out to be a disappointment, yet another brick built monstrosity, harking back to whatever era it felt like in its design. England was a mish-mash of architecture, suffering as it had done from invasions, bombings and modernist philosophy. The solid oak doors were open, beckoning them inside.

The entrance hall was an expanse of dirty red carpet. A crow swooped down from the ceiling and out of the wide doorway, startling them with its harsh call.

“Surprised we didn't shoot each other then,” laughed Porthos.

“Hate birds,” said Athos, shuddering. “Horrible things.”

“You hate a lot of stuff, don’t you?” said Porthos.

“I like Caribbean beaches and ice cold Chablis.” Athos almost managed a full smile to accompany the memory. “Shame that’s a thing of the past.”

“Never knew it,” growled Porthos and Aramis daydreamed of desert islands and wondered if it would be possible.

The walls were indeed covered in insignia and weaponry. Treville stood on a chair and took down a couple of scabbarded rapiers from where they were mounted above a fireplace, passing one to Athos.

"Presentation blade," said Athos as he unsheathed one of the swords.

"Anyone ever done any fencing?" asked Treville, wielding the other.

"A bit," said Aramis. "During officer training."

"I prefer to hit people," said Porthos gruffly. He had risen swiftly through the ranks to gain his commission and, with the world on the brink of war, the subtle nuances of training became a thing of the past. 

"I fenced for my university," said Athos, tipping his head at the captain.

"For the regiment." Treville returned the nod and battle commenced.

They were good, thought Aramis, exceptionally well matched. Athos had the advantage of youth on his side, but Treville made up for it easily from years of hard soldiering. It was an aggressive display of cut and thrust.

"Concede?" said Treville, the blunt tip of his rapier pressing against Athos's heaving chest.

"Never," said Athos, stripping off his leather jacket and jumper. "A point to you, sir."

"Could be a long business," said Porthos in an aside to Aramis. "Shall we see what else this place has to offer?"

Aramis agreed. There'd be plenty of time to relearn his fencing techniques later.

They had checked the kitchens and the stores on previous visits. If nothing else, there were decades worth of tinned food available in the vast pantries. Collecting all the display weapons from the walls as they went, it was on opening up the doors to the officers' lounge that they hit the mother lode. 

"Bloody hell, if it isn't still sharp," said Porthos, unsheathing a basket handled cavalry sword with a steel blade that was as lethal now as when it was cast.

'Mine,' said his eyes and Aramis smiled with delight at the absolute pleasure on his face.

They gathered all the serviceable equipment onto a mahogany sideboard that ran the length of the room and by the time they'd stripped the walls of all the ground floor rooms they'd amassed quite a respectable haul. 

"Time to check out the upstairs," said Porthos, that brute of a sword now attached to him by means of a belt clipped to his own.

"You'll have to learn how to use that." Aramis laughed at the look he received in response.

"I hit people with the sharp bit," growled Porthos. "Simple as. I'll learn the rest as we go along." His hand cupped the pommel of the sword.

It looked right on him, thought Aramis as he followed him up the dusty staircase to the first floor landing. 

"Better stay out of here," said Porthos as he opened a door to what was, quite obviously, the CO's quarters from the size and lavishness of the suite.

Aramis deliberately headed to the far end of the corridor to commandeer their own room to bed down in. Having seen them fuck, he would, if pressed, admit to a vague fascination with Athos and Treville, but had no desire to be overheard by his commanding officer when he was at it himself. "This'll do," he said opening a door on the right and peering in.

"This'll do just fine," said Porthos, closing the door, unfastening his weaponry and hustling Aramis over to the bed.

"Down, tiger," said Aramis with a grin, usually the first to be up for some fun, but not so much in the mid afternoon with his CO downstairs.

"It's a holiday, isn't it?" said Porthos, barging playfully into Aramis until he fell backwards onto the bed, a cloud of dust emanating from the covers. "Get into the spirit of things."

Aramis wondered how he could have been so dim. This was the leave all four of them deserved: time to unwind a little.

Porthos undressed him, pressing kisses onto every exposed part of skin until he was buck naked and arching up from the mattress with want. Kneeling between his spread legs, Porthos opened him up with his fingers and slid a fist over his aching cock. "Ready?"

"Fuck yes," groaned Aramis.

Still fully dressed, Porthos undid his flies, pulled down his trousers and underwear just as far as necessary and covered Aramis with his body, pushing deep inside in a single delightful thrust.

"You still have your boots on," laughed Aramis, though in fact he'd never felt more excited.

"Have indeed," grunted Porthos, pulling them over in the bed until Aramis was on top of him and firmly embedded. "Ride me, Lieutenant."

 

\--- 

 

"It would be easy to live out our days here," yawned Athos. The curtains were closed, the fire was lit and they'd feasted, if you could call it that, on corned beef, instant mash and red wine from the well stocked cellar.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," said Treville and he was as lethargic and relaxed as Aramis had ever seen him. "We can't stay here forever."

"Why not?" Athos stretched out a foot until it connected with Treville's thigh. The captain didn't brush it aside, the way he did the comment.

"Because we have obligations, you know that. Stop being an arse."

Athos shifted around on the couch until he was leaning up against Treville's side. "I let you win earlier," he said with a knowing smile.

"You did nothing of the sort." 

Aramis could see that Treville was a fraction of a second away from kissing Athos and could imagine exactly how their earlier fencing match had ended, with Treville besting Athos then shoving him up against the wall, teeth on his neck, hand on his cock.

"Aramis, fancy some fencing practice?" said Treville, getting up from the leather chesterfield.

"You're insatiable," smirked Athos, doing nothing to ease Aramis out of his fantasy.

Porthos unknowingly came to his rescue. "I’d be grateful if you’d teach me a few moves, sir. I found this beauty earlier." He showed Treville his cavalry sword. "I could do with some lessons."

"That is a lovely weapon." Treville admired the intricate silver handle and blade that was still honed to perfection.

"Please don't pull rank on me and take it," grinned Porthos.

"I wouldn't dare,” Treville smiled at him. “it’s clear to see you’re in love. Now put it down and pick up one of the ceremonial rapiers. That way at least we’ll both come out of this intact.”

Using a heavily patterned carpet runner that stretched almost the full width of the room as a fencing strip, Treville began to coach Porthos in the art of swordsmanship. Despite months of illness and poor nutrition, Porthos was an amazing physical specimen. Strong and balanced, quick on his feet and quick with his brain, it took him no time at all to pick up an understanding of sword fighting.

"It won’t be so easy when we have to do this for real," said Athos, as he and Aramis spectated from the sofa.

He was right, of course. There was a subtle detachment that came from killing with firearms, but the same wouldn’t be so when using a blade. Aramis didn't want to think about it too deeply. Not tonight. Not when they were finally behaving like ordinary people.

Life had turned out very differently from the way he’d expected it to. He'd always imagined that, by now, he'd be a country doctor with a delightful wife and a tumbling pack of children running riot through the village, although he wouldn't exchange Porthos for this dream world of his. Not now. Not ever. 

Looking to his right, he saw that Athos was unguarded for once and watching Treville with a similar level of adoration. "How long have you two been together?" he asked.

Athos looked at him, hard faced with a challenge in his eyes, but then he melted, his resistance crumbling. "A long time, I think," he said. "It's difficult to tell. I was a terrible mess after everything that had happened, and he was so slow and careful at putting me back together. No one had ever..." He drifted off somewhere for a few moments. "No one had ever bothered, I suppose. One morning I woke up knowing for certain that I would never love anyone as much as him, or find anyone that loved me back, _and_ would put up with me." He smiled. "So I told him exactly that."

When he put his mind to it, Athos was a force to be reckoned with, and Aramis could easily imagine Treville being swept off his feet. That said, from some of the things that had been mentioned in passing, he strongly suspected that Treville’s feelings for Athos had been developing for a long time before New Bas.


	12. Chapter 12

The holiday mood continued next morning with some bonus sex followed by a long lie in, the two of them curled up together in that wonderfully spacious double bed. The one thing that disappointed Aramis was when he discovered that the main bathroom on their floor was only equipped with huge enamel tubs and taps that spouted copious amounts of freezing water. He was not about to spend the day stinking to high heaven, and was dubiously considering the merits of a cold bath when Athos poked his head around the door.

"I heard the tap running," he said. "Don't do it; you'll get hypothermia. There's a wash room downstairs with electric showers. There's also a kit store next to it with a ton of clean clothes."

"Thanks," said Aramis gratefully, turning off the torrent of cold water. "Did you sleep well in your luxury accommodation?" The Royal Artillery HQ was a world away from Porton camp.

"Would've done if the gaffer hadn't been so hyped up." Athos arched an eyebrow. "I'm surprised I can still walk. I'm not looking forward to a day in the saddle."

And there it was, the moment Aramis had been waiting for when the friendship between them became _real_. "I empathise entirely,” he said wryly. “Perhaps we can find some bromide to put in their tea."

Athos laughed and it was a glorious sound that echoed around the bathroom.

 

\---

 

Over a breakfast of porridge that had been made with long life milk and heaped with spoonfuls of brown sugar, Porthos popped the question.

"Captain Treville, would it be possible..." He faltered. "It wouldn't be a problem if..."

"Ask away, Porthos. You're not renowned for being backward in coming forward." Treville swallowed a mouthful of coffee and topped up his mug from the pot.

"Seeing as d'Artagnan and Constance have married quarters, we wondered if we, that is Aramis and I, could be allocated couples accommodation."

"Of course." Treville frowned. "Don't tell me you've been cooped up in barracks all this time?"

"We didn't know whether it would be acceptable, sir," said Aramis.

"We're French; we believe in the founding principles of egalité, do we not?" Treville slammed his mug down on the table. "Pick out whatever quarters you want when we get back to camp. Now onto the important business of the day."

"That was easy," murmured Porthos in an undertone. "Told you we should've asked as soon as we found out he was having it off with grumpy guts over there."

Aramis spluttered with laughter and then disguised it with a cough which fooled no one.

"At least have the decency to _pretend_ to listen to me," said Treville, a smile in his eyes.

"Can I borrow you a minute?" said Athos to Porthos when the captain had finished dishing out orders. "I need to make use of that brute strength of yours."

"Course, bro," said Porthos, grinning at Aramis as he followed Athos out of the room. He loved to be needed.

"While they're busy I'd be grateful for a few fencing lessons, sir," said Aramis. "I haven't picked up a sword in years." He wasn’t at all certain he'd be able to use one in a fight, but he should at least refresh himself in the rudiments.

"Come on then, Aramis." Treville was obviously overjoyed at the idea and within minutes they were kitted up and were making use of the improvised fencing mat in the lounge.

"You seem to know England very well," said Aramis, once Treville had clued him in on some of the finer points of mastering the sword.

They stopped for a breather, perching on the rounded button back of the sofa and taking swigs of water from their canteens. "I've been a soldier all my life," Treville said. "Before the anti-terror squad was formed, I was in 11th Airborne Hussars and, up until the dissolution of the United Kingdom, we worked closely with the British military. Most of the war work I was involved in were joint missions based from here. It's my second home; my only home now, I suppose."

Aramis was impressed. "You're a paratrooper."

"I _was_ a paratrooper a long time ago." Treville walked over to the window. The morning light limned him, highlighting the grey in his hair, but he looked far from old.

"I'm sure you could still make the jump," said Aramis and it had nothing to do with flattery.

"I'm not and I hope to god I never have to find out," laughed Treville. "Now on with the lessons. We'll soon turn you into a swordsman to be reckoned with."

Aramis would admit to being both exhausted and utterly relieved when Athos and Porthos reappeared an hour or so later, both carrying stacks of bound papers.

“Your brute strength was of use then,” said Aramis as he sank down, sweaty and shattered, onto the sofa.

“More my misspent youth, to be honest,” said Porthos. “I never thought my legendary skills as a burglar would come in handy again.”

“How in hell’s name did you get accepted into the army with a criminal record?” asked Treville.

“No record.” Porthos shrugged. “Never got caught.” He erupted into a grin. “Told you I was good. I’ll make a start on those weapons lockers later.”

Aramis adored him more than ever. No one else in the world could confess a thing like that to their commanding officer with such a vast amount of pride. “What did you steal?” he asked, looking over at the paperwork that was stacked in two piles on the table.

“Operating manuals,” said Athos, pen in hand, notepad on his knee as he began to read.

 

\---

 

Somehow, distracted by various pursuits, the day escaped them, and in no time at all they found themselves sitting down at the small table in the officers' lounge to an evening meal of tinned stew and instant mash.

"I'm not certain this isn't dog food," said Aramis, after a few dubious mouthfuls.

"Rubbish," said Porthos. "No self respecting dog would ever eat this muck."

"Beggars can't be choosers." Treville washed his down with a glug of wine.

"Useless." Athos discarded the manual in disgust. He'd been reading all day and not said a word to anyone other than the odd grumble of annoyance when someone bothered him with a question. "What a complete waste of time."

Treville topped up his wine glass. "Do we dare speak to you now?"

Athos glowered at him. "I've been trying to understand the principles of rocketry and bio-dispersal methods, but I've just realised that I've been putting the cart miles before the horse. We know the antiserum works, but we have no idea if it'll survive airborne. Damn it." He shoved his plate away in annoyance and rubbed tired eyes.

"Listen, Olivier," said Treville. "This is not your burden to carry."

“Of course it is,” snapped Athos. "None of you have destroyed the lives of millions of people. How can it be anything _but_ my burden?”

“No,” said Treville. “Stop it. That’s enough.”

There was a high level of guilt in the captain's voice and Aramis understood. The three of them had spent the day larking about, leaving Athos to his own solitary devices, without considering what new pit of despair the man might be digging himself.

"If you so much as peek at the cover of one of those bloody manuals again, then I'll put the lot of them on the fire," continued Treville, and with that he got up from the table and collected a bottle of wine in one hand and Athos' arm in the other, encouraging the younger man to stand. "Excuse us, gentlemen, we have some relaxing to do. We'll leave for Westdown first thing in the morning."

They were perfect for each other, thought Aramis as he watched Treville lead Athos firmly out of the room, both able to gee the other up whenever it was needed, much the same as him and Porthos. "Take me to bed," he said, brimming over with a sudden attack of desire.

"I'd rather take you on that couch in front of the fire." Porthos grinned at him, his eyes huge and sinfully dark.

Lights switched off, the room illuminated solely by the glow of the flames, they stripped each other bare and lay back on the sofa, wrapped together, pressed up close, kissing each other with languid strokes of tongue: soft, sweet and full of dirty promise.

"I could not be happier," said Porthos as he sank into Aramis.

 

\---

 

With a sizeable amount of regret, they left their haven in Larkhill, all four of them kitted up with swords and accoutrements, their packs and saddle bags stuffed full of looted goods from the Gunners' mess. This whole journey was only supposed to have taken the best part of three days and yet, two days in, they still hadn't reached the camp, so it seemed only sensible to bring along as much as they could comfortably carry.

The first mob that surrounded them brought all Aramis' fears to the fore, and he suspected that Treville had deliberately led them through the small parade of shops in Larkhill centre just to gain some experience with their new weapons. Athos and Porthos, born soldiers perhaps, had no trouble riding into the pack and hacking through them with their swords. Newly sharpened, the blades were lethal and a swift slice to the throat was chillingly effective.

Aramis stayed back, his stomach roiling at the sight of so much spilt blood and, satisfied that the other two men were in no immediate danger, Treville remained behind with him. "It's unpleasant but necessary," he said quietly. "Remember that our ultimate goal here is to save as many of them as possible. We only kill if we have no other choice."

"I know, sir, but this is barbaric," sighed Aramis. "I'm a doctor. I save lives."

"I understand," said Treville. "But would you kill to save Porthos?"

"I’d kill to save all of you," said Aramis, searching his heart for the truth.

"Then you're a good soldier." Treville urged his horse forward, and with sword in hand dispatched two of the more aggressive creeps in swift succession.

After a couple of hours riding, they reached a backwater service station, one of those strange, independent garages that existed only in rural areas. "Not far now," said Treville, consulting his map and then dismounting. "We may as well recce the place while we're here."

Leaving the horses tethered to the air and water pumps, they stepped over snaked petrol hoses. "Is there any point checking?" asked Porthos doubtfully. There'd been no fuel for years, not since the ONA had shut off the supply, but humans were hopeful creatures and as Treville turned on the main switches, Porthos tested each pump in turn.

In the meantime, Aramis searched out Athos, who had disappeared inside the hut-like building. On entering, he was surprised by the sound of conversation and drew his pistol immediately.

A small boy, no more than four or five years old, was on tiptoes leaning against the counter. He reached for an empty box of chocolate bars and chewed desperately at the cardboard, a stream of dribble running down the side of a mouth that had been eaten away by sores.

"Were they your favourite sweets?" asked Athos in a gentle voice as the child looked at him with unseeing eyes and stuffed more pieces of torn card into his mouth. Stepping closer, Athos folded himself protectively around the small boy, and then there was this sickening snap of bone and the child dropped to the floor lifeless, his head at an unnatural angle.

"No," cried Aramis. "Fuck!" His gun was raised and pointing at Athos: at the monster in front of him. "Why did you do that?" His stomach threatened to rid itself of breakfast as he looked at that rag doll body and heard the never ending echo of a tiny neck snapping. "He was just a little boy," he groaned, his finger juddering on the trigger. "We have the fucking antiserum. We could have saved him."

"Saved him for what purpose?" Athos said, low and cold, his voice sharp with anger. "Have you seen the internment stations in France? Have you visited the refugee camps in London, looked in the eyes of those _healthy_ children there, traumatised because their own parents tried to kill them? You don't know anything, Aramis. You spent the whole time trying to make sure you and Porthos were safe and I understand that, I really do, but don't ever fucking dare preach to me about right and wrong and unjustified killing until you've seen what's really happening to the world. Not your cloud cuckoo version of things."

"Put the gun down, Aramis," said Treville firmly and at the same time Porthos was a stalwart presence next to him, taking the semi-automatic from his shaking fingers, flicking the safety and stowing it away in his own pocket for safe-keeping.

Aramis was shivering, his eyes still glued to that broken body.

"At least this wasn't a wasted trip," said Athos, waving a carton of Bensons that he'd found under the counter.

"Shut the fuck up," said Treville. "Or I'll shut you up myself."

Sinking unsteadily to the floor, Aramis said in a ghost of a voice: "You killed him. He was hungry and you killed him." He wanted to go back to that fool's paradise where he and Porthos were happy and the world was small and smelt of fresh grass and sunburnt skin. He wanted to make love in front of a fire every night. He wanted to stop hearing that gruesome sound of bones snapping like kindling. He covered his ears in the forlorn hope that this would drown out the noise.

"Yes, I killed him and I'd do it again."

Aramis looked up to see Athos lighting one of his looted cigarettes. His eyes weren't cold the way they should have been, and when he held a hand out to Aramis to help him to his feet, Aramis took it. 

"Now make yourself useful and collect up all the batteries, lighters, matches from behind the counter," instructed Athos.

Porthos and Treville were right not to interfere, thought Aramis. There was no point in talking things through; he and Athos had done enough of that this past year to know where they both stood, but Aramis had truly taken a bashing today. Fully aware that he was never going to stop trying to _save_ lives, he'd suffered a harsh grounding in reality and had emerged from it battered, his spirit tarnished. There was enough room in the world for romantic idealism and brutal realism to co-exist, but they would inevitably come to blows every so often.

"Perhaps I should see these refugee camps for myself," said Aramis as he stowed boxes of matches into a plastic bag.

"You will soon enough," said Treville brusquely. "Hurry it along, gentlemen. We need to reach Westdown before we lose the light. It's a barren place if I remember rightly."

Before they left the service station, Porthos broke open the cellophane wrapper of a travel blanket and then shrouded the child in the tartan material. Picking him up in his burly arms, he carried him out of the shop to dispose of his body in one of the covered skips behind the building. There would be no funeral or words spoken over this nameless little chap, but Aramis' prayers would go with him and he'd not be forgotten.

Sad task completed, they mounted their horses and rode west across the plain, the heavy sun low in the sky, decorating the wind warped trees with a shimmer of gold. It was a beautiful sight and a stark contrast to Westdown camp, which turned out to be anything but pleasant.

A lifelong fan of old movies, Aramis had probably watched every WWII film ever made, from the cheesy romances to the downright propaganda. He'd rarely, however, seen such a perfect example of a prisoner of war camp. Set into the high ground and surrounded by razor wire fencing, stood row upon row of military huts. A drab greenish grey in colour, they camouflaged themselves perfectly against the stony backdrop of scrub hillside.

"Welcome to Butlins," said Porthos to lighten the mood.

"I've been to worse holiday camps when I was a kid." Treville smiled at Porthos, grateful for that unfailingly positive spirit.

Athos dismounted and dragged at one of the high metal gates which opened with a stomach clenching screech. His horse whinnied and fought against its reins at the ghastly noise. "What was this place used for?" he asked Treville.

The older man was guarded. "I stayed here when I was on a joint services training exercise."

"Which explains why you know about the nearby pub," added Porthos helpfully.

Acknowledging this with a nod, Treville continued speaking. "There's also an older subterranean part, built into the hill which was used as a prison during World War Two. I warn you now, it's grim." He looked at Athos. "You won't like it there."

There was something foreboding about the place, thought Aramis. He couldn't describe it any better than that. "The huts'll be fine for staff and the rehabilitated," he said, looking inside the buildings. They were simple, old fashioned barracks, filled with bunks, each fitted with a central stove for warmth.

"Sooner them than me," said Porthos, stepping inside one of the buildings and flicking the switch. "Power's off."

"Might be just that one," suggested Treville.

"Afraid not," called Athos. "Nothing's working. Any of you gentlemen have a secret background as an electrician?"

The following spell of silence answered his question well enough. "Well, this is peachy," says Porthos.

"It has its own solar farm," said Aramis. "It shouldn't be _too_ much of a problem to get it going."

"I'm sure you're right," said Treville. "We have engineers back at Porton, and in the meantime we make do. We are soldiers, after all."

"We've made camp in far worse places," said Porthos. "There's a copse to the north where we can get wood and, if it stays dry, we can bed down by the fire to keep warm."

"Telling ghost stories and toasting marshmallows?" drawled Athos. "Perhaps we should finish reconnoitring before we bother about housekeeping issues." He turned to address the captain. "Show me the cells you were talking about."

He was as witheringly sarcastic as he was the day they met, but, knowing the man a lot better now, Aramis could sense the waves of nervous apprehension pouring off him. Darkness frightened him. Small spaces frightened him. Prison frightened him the most.

Treville led them past the cook house and towards the earthen bank that partially surrounded them. Overgrown by ungainly clumps of thistles were a set of narrow steps that led into a recessed passageway. Aramis followed the captain down into the depths, with Porthos at his heels and Athos bringing up the rear. Designed like a miniature version of a Victorian fort, was an arc of brick built cells that stretched for as far as the eye could see. Each room was long and narrow, set deep into the hillside, with a cast iron barred door securing the entrance.

"Originally used to house ammunition, I suspect," said Treville, his voice dampened by the sheer volume of earth around them. "Probably an old test site of some kind."

Aramis peered doubtfully into one of the rooms. There was no power, no water and no drainage. It was also dirty, cold and grim. “It's not what I'd term a medical unit." He hated to argue with Treville, but this was inherently unsuitable. He wouldn't like to see it used as kennels.

"I agree," said Athos. "We'll decontaminate the entire facility at Porton and use that instead."

"Absolutely not," insisted Treville. "Too close to base if anything goes wrong."

Athos pushed open one of the iron gates. "You'd put sick people in here and think they'd get better?" He entered the cell, reaching up to touch the arched ceiling that was dripping with water.

"Needs must," said Treville stubbornly. "I'll not have an army of ferals putting my soldiers' lives at risk."

"Then why not move the whole camp to Larkhill?" said Porthos.

Athos and Aramis looked at each other in sheer relief because, whether he knew it or not, the big man had just played a blinder of a winning hand.

"It's a lot of effort," said Treville, but it was easy to see that his defences were breaking down.

"Regiments march out all the time," said Athos. "We move base, lock stock and barrel, to the Gunners HQ, leaving behind a skeleton unit at Porton to run the facility. This means we're on site for artillery research and close to the Naafi for supplies. It also means the medical team have all the resources on hand and a safe working environment to boot."

"Are you giving me orders, Athos?" Treville folded his arms.

"Just suggestions, sir," Athos said, his mouth curving into a lopsided smirk. "It was all Porthos' idea and, if I might say so, a genius one at that." He flashed Porthos a full smile: an uncommon occurrence rather than a rare one nowadays.

Treville threw his arms up in a gesture of surrender and headed for the steps. "Seeing as my plans have been shot down in flames, we may as well concentrate on getting this place prepared for the night." He may have been defeated but he wasn't bad tempered about it.

"We can still use the place for training purposes, sir," said Porthos, hurrying after the captain.

About to comment on Porthos' eagerness to please his commanding officer, Aramis looked at Athos and forgot every word he was about to say, because the expression of overwhelming terror on Athos' face was awful to behold. PTSD flashbacks could be sudden and shocking; he'd looked after soldiers on the front who had disappeared in front of his eyes.

"Let's get out of here." Aramis squeezed Athos' shoulder firmly to help him through this. "Move, Athos,” he insisted, but the man was rooted to the spot. Drawing Athos in close, Aramis wrapped both arms tightly around him and waited for reality to return. "Okay now?"

Athos was shaking, his face buried against Aramis’ sweater. “I didn’t want to kill him.”

“Who?” Aramis was confused. Was this about his brother?

“The child.”

“Funny really,” said Aramis, his hand carding through Athos’ hair. “You do something that screws with my head and turns out that it fucks you up even more.”

“Karma, I’d say.” His senses returning, Athos took a step back. His eyes were wet and his skin was pale, but he managed to dredge up a colourless image of a smile.

“Everything all right?” called Treville from above. 

"Yes, sir," replied Aramis. "All’s good." And it would be. "We really have to get off this merry-go-round of hurting each other," he said quietly to Athos.

"If the world were the way it used to be then I hope we’d be the best of friends." Athos lit up and then offered Aramis a cigarette. His hands were still shaking as he struck the match.

"We would be," said Aramis with utter confidence. "We very nearly are."

They escaped the confines of the prison and, one after the other, ascended the steps toward the light. 

"Aramis, you're with me," said Treville as soon as they surfaced. "Grab a rifle and we'll see how good a shot you really are. Athos, you're with Porthos on fire duty. I want all of us back here before dark."

 

\---

 

"Doesn't one of you know how to skin and gut a rabbit?" Treville looked at them all in amazement.

"I'm a city boy. He's a posh boy." Pothos pointed at Athos. "And Aramis wouldn't enjoy jointing Thumper and his friends one bit."

"It's true, sir," said Aramis. "It was hard enough killing them for the pot." Mostly because they scampered mighty quickly and Aramis was armed with a rifle rather than a shotgun.

Treville sighed and rolled up his sleeves. Taking out his knife, he prepared the meat and skewered it for roasting over the fire, which was blazing away in front of them. "Did they not teach you any survival skills during training?" he said in disgust.

"It was assumed we'd always have ration packs with us," said Aramis.

"And what would you do if you ran out?" questioned Treville.

"Eat nuts and berries, the way nature intended." Athos was lounging near the fire, propped on an elbow and watching Treville work with a smile on his face.

"Athos, what rank are you?" asked Aramis. He'd been pondering this question ever since they’d met; the man dressed like a private, spoke like a general and acted like a mercenary.

"None. They tend to strip you of such of things when you're found guilty of treason against the state."

"What _were_ you then?" asked Porthos.

"He was a bloody colonel.” Treville raised his eyes heavenward. “But it was a nonsense. As soon as he was commissioned, they pushed his promotions through quickly so that he could outrank everyone on the research team."

"Yet, still a colonel," smirked Athos, teasing Treville, the career soldier, with this obvious bone of contention.

"He's also a member of the nobility," said Treville, "the Comte de la Fère. So we should be tugging our forelocks and grateful that he even speaks to us."

Athos shrugged. "Ten a penny in France, as well you know."

Aramis admired the fact that a man with so many titles to choose from, opted to go by a single name.

Taking a skewer of meat from Treville, Athos propped it over the fire where it promptly fell into the flames.

"Can't cook though, eh?" said Porthos as he rescued it and brushed off the ashes.

It turned out to be a good spirited evening. Beers were opened to accompany the fresh meat and everyone had camp fire stories to tell. The murky weather system had passed them by and it seemed sensible to set their bed rolls out near the fire to stay warm, taking shifts at watch. The smell of wood smoke reminded Aramis of good times that were long since past.

"I'll go lock the gates," said Athos. They'd brought padlocks and thick chains with them from Larkhill.

"Wouldn't dream of letting you do such manual work, your Lordship," sniggered Porthos, receiving a well aimed boot to his thigh. "Ow. Dead leg."

"Stop whining. You brought it on yourself," said Athos. "You do the gates; I'll see to the horses."

They were still bickering good naturedly as they went off to do their chores.

"Who gets first watch?” asked Aramis.

“The least tired,” said Treville. “But how to determine that, I’m not sure.”

"Aramis, Treville," yelled Athos. "Porthos is in trouble." The dull roar that accompanied his words told the rest of the story. 

Swords in hand, the two men rushed towards the gates where Athos was slicing his way through the horde, decimating it as he went. Porthos was surrounded and using the heavy duty chain as a very effective mace, but with Aramis and Treville joining in, a path was soon cleared. The big man was in full berserker mode, and dragging his gore spattered form clear of the remaining army of creeps they turned tail and ran, the fire and aroma of food enough of a distraction to allow them to successfully escape.

"The cells," shouted Treville, and they were on their way there when they realised that Athos wasn't with them.

"You go ahead. I'll get him," said Treville, about to head straight back into the fray.

Aramis shook his head. "All for one, remember." 

Athos was holding his own against the creeps, but from the amount that were pouring in the open gates Aramis knew it wouldn't remain that way for long.

"Come on, Athos," said Treville as Porthos and Aramis took over the fight. "We go in the cells, we stay alive. Stay out here and we're dead."

"You go." Beneath the blood, Athos was stony faced, but Aramis knew that expression well enough by now.

"Do you trust me?" said Treville.

"Always," said Athos quietly. "But, Jean, I can't."

"You can, because I'll be with you."

Aramis was relieved when Athos conceded the argument and, keeping together as a tight squad, they raced through the camp towards the subterranean prison. However, he had his doubts about the plan. He’d seen how poorly Athos had coped earlier when they were inside the cell, and that was with the barred gate wide open. He’d also reacted badly during a similar situation at the PHL, and that was when he was on medication. Frankly, Aramis wasn’t at all sure that Athos could get through this without being knocked unconscious.

Choosing the one with the least eroded ironwork, Porthos and Aramis chained and padlocked the gate shut, leaving Treville to keep Athos calm, pulling him down until they were tucked into a safe corner: holding him, comforting him, talking him through his fears.

"It's okay, Olivier. Everything will be okay. I've got you. I'll always be here..."

Some things were too quiet to hear. Some were simply too personal to listen to. Aramis allowed himself a moment to imagine what it must have been like alone in New Bastille for weeks on end, surrounded by such horror and he sank down against the rear wall of the cell, hating the world.

"Sleep," said Porthos, the solid weight of his arm descending around Aramis' shoulders. "I'll wake you when I'm tired."

The darkness was thick and damp, the cold so intense that Aramis could feel it soaking into his bones as he waited for the inevitable onslaught of creeps. How stupid they were to treat this like a camping trip. It was obvious the _diseased_ would be attracted by the familiarity of meat barbecuing on a bonfire.

Eventually, sprawled against Porthos' side, he did succumb to sleep, but woke, not long after, to the horrifying sound of hundreds of creeps crowding along the passageway as if it were rush hour and they were running for the Metro. 

"These doors will give way if they shove up against them," warned Porthos. “So be prepared.”

"How's Athos?" asked Aramis quietly.

"He's fine," replied Treville and Aramis heard the subtle sound of a kiss. "Now quiet everyone. If you have a god I suggest you start praying."

 

\---

 

They survived a long night of hell, all of them frozen to the bone and scarred from things too vile to describe. The cell stank of urine from where, in desperation, they'd had to use the far corner of it to relieve themselves. That was a horror story in itself, the warm, wet flow attracting the creeps and driving them to an ever deeper state of mania.

The frightened whinnying of the horses heralded a new phase of the nightmare, the feral sounds from the distance attracting the creeps from the cells, and all four men sat in silence, trying not to listen to the sounds of a feeding frenzy.

"Are we ever going to be free of this?" murmured Aramis.

By the time the sun was up, the camp had fallen into a dead silence. "I believe they've gone," said Treville. He had Athos safe in his arms.

"I'll have a scout around," said Porthos, undoing the chain. "Lock this back up while I’m gone. I’ll yell if I need you to open it quick."

Aramis did as he was told, holding his breath all the time Porthos was gone. 

"All clear," came the cry, "but I warn you it ain't pretty out here."

Doubting whether any of them cared about anything other than escaping this hell hole, Aramis unfastened the padlock and led the way to ground level.

"Thank fuck," sighed Athos in relief as he took in some very necessary deep breaths of fresh cold air. "Don't make me do that again, you bastard."

"I'll make you do anything I see fit, as long as it’ll keep you alive." Past caring who was there to witness this, Treville pushed Athos up against the ramparts. Yanking down their clothing he wet himself with spit and thrust into him with a shudder. 

Allowing them some privacy, Aramis headed off to find Porthos who was grim faced and dealing with a very messy clean up. 

"The others?" he asked.

"Having a fuck," explained Aramis and he wasn’t smirking when he said it.

"There’ll be plenty of time for that later," said Porthos angrily. 

Aramis couldn't blame him for feeling that way--the man was knee deep in horse guts at present--but there were occasions when a basic urge for comfort surpassed all. "They needed it," he said, wading in to help Porthos with the clean up.


	13. Chapter 13

With the horses now slaughtered, it was a long slog back to Porton. Most of their newly scrounged gear had to be abandoned and every vehicle they came across turned out to have an empty tank. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Despite her angry words, Ninon was thoroughly relieved to see them when they trudged wearily into the mess. "Spies are solitary creatures," she declared over a large glass of wine. "I hate dealing with humans."

Athos filled glasses, chinking his against Ninon's, and Aramis smiled at the idea of the two most introverted people in the world finding each other and becoming firm friends.

"So what's been happening here then?" asked Treville. He wasn’t particularly gregarious by nature, but was the opposite in personality. His regiment was his life's work. His men were his family.

"Not a lot,” said Ninon. “Remi's been preparing the antiserum for production."

Athos shook his head. “First we need to test it to see how effective it’ll be airborne. I should have taken that into consideration.”

“But we can produce enough to protect our own people from further attacks,” said Aramis.

“I doubt they’d use the same virus,” said Athos. He smiled grimly. “But at least they haven’t got me there to create a new one.”

“Shut it,” growled Porthos, slapping him on the back.

"We need to hold fire on all of that for the present," said Treville. "Ninon, we've decided to decontaminate the facility to use as a hospital and decamp to Larkhill."

"Makes sense," said Ninon. "We had a new influx of migrants arrive from France while you were gone. The last members of the resistance brought them over by boat. So, that’s it. We've reached our full complement."

It was a sombre thought. The Tunnel was now shut down, with France completely under the control of Richelieu and his Guard. All hope hinged on the success rate of the vaccine, and their ability to turn the rehabilitated into a functioning army. Would they be drones, able to take orders but with little cognitive reasoning? Or would they be cured enough that they'd be able to think for themselves? In that case who was to say that they’d want to become a part of this ragtag and bobtail army.

Aramis and Athos shared a look of mutual understanding. This was a long journey they were undertaking, on a route that may yet turn out to be impassable.

 

\---

 

Leaving Athos and Remi to organise a decontamination schedule for the facility, the others managed the transfer of equipment over to Larkhill. There was a buzz of excitement about the camp as if six weeks of block leave was about to begin when in fact it was be the opposite: extra hard graft for all.

“Why are we so happy about this?” said d’Artagnan as he helped carry boxes.

"It's better than being bored," said Porthos, checking ordnance off lists as it was loaded into a truck. "How much of this should we leave behind?" he asked Aramis. "We need to keep the place defended. It’s pretty well hidden, but even so we have to be sure that whoever’s left staffing it will be secure.”

“The facility can be kept in lock down most of the time, so it’s the camp we have to think about,” said Aramis.

Over the course of the next week, Porthos and Aramis devised defence strategies and ensured that the units who would be remaining behind were well versed in them. The research facility had now gone through a thorough decontamination with the F’s and even the D’s happy at being given new living quarters inside the building. Belongings and equipment had been shipped out to Larkhill and the mishmash regiment of soldiers, resistance and civilians were now ready to march out in the morning.

This was effectively the last night they would all be spending together and, now that it had become a reality, Aramis was less than happy about splitting up his unit. Constance, d’Artagnan and Athos would be spending most of their time here, whilst the others would be over at Larkhill, working on ballistics. 

Still, the idea was to keep everyone’s spirits up rather than dampen them, and as they enjoyed a final meal together in the mess, Aramis looked to the future. “What I intend to do as soon as spring comes around is plant out a garden so that we can have fresh vegetables.” He pushed the processed food around his plate. “We’ll all get scurvy at this rate.”

“Why stop at a garden?” Athos quirked an eyebrow. “Why not build a farm? We could produce our own bacon and eggs.”

“You might be taking the piss, bro, but it sounds bloody good to me.” Porthos let out a contented sigh at the thought.

Athos was distracted by something else, peering around him and slightly baffled, by the look of things. “Do you smell flowers?” he asked.

“Aw, bless, he wants to grow roses not cabbages,” teased Porthos.

“Roses it is then,” said Aramis. “You can have the first bouquet, Athos.”

Athos was smiling, but he still looked unsettled, constantly looking at the faces sitting around every table.

“You’re jumpy,” said Ninon quietly, but not so quiet that Aramis couldn’t listen in.

“Who was in the last bunch of immigrants?” said Athos.

“No one that stood out as unusual.” Ninon shrugged. “The last of the soldiers,” she said.

“No families?” said Athos. “No women?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Ninon. “Though women are soldiers too. We don’t all wear dresses and dream of shoes.”

“I know. I know,” said Athos tetchily. “You know what I meant. Stop with your feminist crap. I’ve heard it all before.”

Treville leaned across the table and topped up his wine glass. “Drink up and shut up. None of us want to listen to your temper tantrums tonight.”

He had a way of reprimanding the man that was clearly rooted in sex. Athos' mood improved instantly as he smiled lazily at Treville, head down, eyes intense, and Aramis had to look away from this exchange. There was something incredibly intimate happening, if you knew them well enough to see it.

Before the dessert course was served, Treville rose to his feet and chinked his glass with the tines of his fork. “I’m not about to make a speech.” There was a loud round of applause from the floor. “Yes, yes, thank you,” he continued with a smile. “I’d just like to say what a pleasure it’s been working with you all. I can’t believe how we’ve grown over the years, in number and ability, and I hope we continue to do so. You're as fine a regiment as I’ve ever served with and you should consider that a compliment because I’ve served with the best.” His eyes darted left to fix momentarily on Porthos and Aramis.

“It’s sounding an awful lot like a speech, sir,” said Porthos and everyone laughed, but if the raw emotion in the room could have been measured right then, it would have been off the scale.

“To new beginnings,” said Treville, raising his glass in a toast.

“New beginnings,” came the chorused response.

 

\---

 

“This is bloody typical,” grumbled Porthos. “We finally get married quarters and now we have to leave.”

Aramis looked around him at the empty bedroom, their two kit bags on the floor waiting to be zipped and collected in the morning. He was just as sad to be leaving. Their tiny house was as out of date as everything else on this base, but it was cosy and quaint and, best of all, it had a king size bed with a well sprung mattress: most unusual for the army. One of the previous occupants must have had enough of the regulation squeaky frame and bought a new one out of his own money.

“We’ll find somewhere even better at Larkhill,” promised Aramis as he kissed his way slowly down Porthos’ chest. “Enough of the moping; let’s make the most of our last night here.”

“God, yes. That’s it, love,” said Porthos as Aramis took him into his mouth. “That’s gorgeous.”

Aramis loved the feel of him, the taste of him, everything about him, and as they switched positions and Porthos nudged inside, Aramis hooked his legs tightly around that big body and knew that this would be enough to make him happy for the rest of his life. As far as he was concerned, the world could stay fucked. He and Porthos were perfect and that was all that mattered.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a harsh chapter. Please take note of warnings in tags.

Up at the crack of dawn, everyone was milling aimlessly around the parade ground, ready to be given orders to pile into trucks and leave base.

“Move out then, chaps and chapesses,” shouted Treville. “Steady as you go and I’ll see you all up at RAHQ.”

People piled into coaches and trucks, and immediately the quadrangle was transformed into a hive of activity.

“So, I guess this is it, guys,” said d’Artagnan. “I know I haven’t been here long, but it feels like the end of an era.” He was miserable and Aramis understood his mood.

“It’s going to be weird,” agreed Constance. “I know we have to stay for the rehabilitation programme, but I don’t know what we’re going to do with ourselves on a deserted camp.”

“I’ve an idea,” sniggered Porthos and Aramis kicked him.

“It’s hardly the end of anything,” said Athos, the voice of practicality. “We’ll all be running back and forth between both camps.” He was bent over, busy packing the final few bits of gear into the panniers of his beloved Kawasaki. “I’ve got to spend most of my time here to work on the-”

“Athos, dear,” said an unfamiliar voice. “I’m afraid you won’t be working on anything.”

Athos jerked upright and stared at the stranger. She may have been dressed in fatigues, her hair hidden under a cap, but she was no ordinary soldier, and the pistol pointed directly at Athos’ chest indicated her intent.

Aramis looked at Porthos in dismay. There was no clear strategy to put into action. They were both unarmed and too far away for a take down. The only weapon Aramis had at his disposal was words. The woman was, without doubt, Athos’ wife, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, think of her name. 

“Put the weapon down and we can talk about this,” he said, his arms outstretched to show good faith.

Without taking her eyes, or her gun off her target, she put a finger to her lips, telling Aramis that negotiation was not an option. “I won’t allow you to ruin things, Athos,” she said, spitting out his name like an insult. "You won't be going ahead with the antiserum."

Athos’ Glock was out of its holster, the muzzle trained on his wife. “How do you know what I’m working on, Anne?”

“A spy can run her own team of agents,” she said. “Did you never once think that Remi was too much of a gift to just land in your lap like that. The problem with you, darling, is that you’re so trusting. You’re clever, but you’re also a naïve fool.”

“Not any more.” Athos’ hands tensed around the gun.

“Kill me and you’ll leave my son without a mother.” She smiled at his hesitation, her expression as callous as it was dangerous. “Thank you for proving my point.”

From that moment onwards, everything happened in slow motion. She pulled the trigger, a shot blasted out and, simultaneously, Treville dived in front of Athos, both men falling to the tarmac, a pool of blood spilling out around them, widening by the second.

“Fuck,” cried Aramis and as a second shot rang out, he fell to his knees, easing Treville away from Athos and glancing around to see a pistol in d’Artagnan’s hand, a column of smoke drifting upwards. Athos’ wife was dead, a precise hole drilled through her forehead. The exit wound at the back of the skull would not be so neat.

The bullet from her weapon had impacted Treville’s chest and blood trickled out of his mouth as he tried to speak. “Is Athos okay?”

Aramis looked to Porthos, who had Athos in his arms, and the big man nodded in answer to the captain’s question. From the massive amount of blood everywhere, the wound must have perforated, but the bullet had missed its intended target.

“He’s fine, sir. He’s safe.” Bruised and broken, but alive, which was more than Treville would be in a matter of minutes. The trauma was too great; there was nothing anyone could do to save him.

“Listen to me, Aramis,” said Treville, his voice growing weaker. “You have to look after him for me.” He gargled on blood and spat out a mouthful. “He needs you and Porthos. He’s important.”

Aramis nodded impotently, moving aside to let that important someone through to say goodbye.

“Jean,” Athos knelt and bent over the dying man. Angry. Scared. Hopeless.

“Olivier,” said Treville. “Don’t give up, please.”

“You stupid, _stupid_ fucker.” Athos rested his forehead on Treville’s shoulder. “Why did you do it?”

Treville smiled at him, but he was fading. “You know why.”

Athos was covered, head to toe, in Treville’s blood. Wild eyed and pleading, he looked to Aramis. “Do something. Please do something. Please. Help him. Please.”

Aramis would have given his soul to perform a miracle, but he was simply a doctor and could do nothing more than watch over Treville as he slipped away from them. The elongated rattle signified the end. A sound that Aramis knew all too well. The closing of a good man’s life.

“Take Athos somewhere, _anywhere_. Just get him away from here,” he said to Porthos. “I’ll stay and deal with the rest.”

Unable to speak, Porthos nodded, wrapping his jacket around Athos’ shoulders and hauling him clear of Treville’s body.

Aramis looked around him at the circle of stricken faces. The news would soon reach Larkhill and the others would return to mourn their commanding officer. He doubted that anyone would have noticed Athos’ overwhelming grief. Treville was loved by them all and was, to the rest of the world, a close friend of Athos. They’d kept their relationship private, allowing just a few people in on the secret, and Aramis hoped it would remain that way. 

Ninon was poker faced, busy organising the removal of the bodies. D’Artagnan was a wreck, sobbing in Constance’s arms and blaming himself for everything to do with the woman’s presence here. Aramis was dull, as if all his emotions had gone on strike.

“As soon as I get my hands on Remi, I’ll slaughter him,” said Ninon. If he hadn’t already shipped out to the new camp he’d be a dead man.

“I have a feeling some of the others will do it for you,” said Aramis in a grim voice. 

Ninon nodded. “You'll have to take charge, of course,” she said. “There’s no one else. You have the respect of the men.”

Aramis dismissed the idea as nonsense. He was no commander. He was too rash. Too selfish. Nothing like Treville. “I don’t even know what to do with myself,” he confessed. “How can I give orders to anyone else?”

“Not yet,” said Ninon. “But soon. For now you have to look after Athos. You and Porthos take care of him. I’ll deal with the chaos here.”

“He’ll need you,” said Aramis. Ninon and Athos were close, but then again perhaps they were too similar.

“Treville knew what he was talking about,” said Ninon with a smile of encouragement. “Tell him I’ll see him soon. Tell him we need him to be strong.”

Her face crumpled as she turned away, and Aramis could hear a tell tale gasp of breath as she tried to restrain a sob. 

For all his size and bluster, Porthos was a sensitive soul, and Aramis knew immediately which place he would have chosen as a bolt hole. They'd have gone to ground in Treville’s quarters where Athos would be surrounded by memories to comfort him. Aramis wondered whether he should bring sedatives with him, but Athos had battled so hard to get off medication it seemed a poor choice. Instead, he picked up a bottle of cognac from the bar. 

Fist raised, he hesitated before knocking at the door and it was a mistake, reminding him all too much of being reunited with Treville in his office here. For the first time since the captain’s death, Aramis was hit by wave after wave of despair. He knew he must pull himself together for Athos’ sake, but it wasn’t going to be easy. Three sharp raps let Porthos know it was him, and when the door opened, he stepped inside the suite of rooms which had once belonged to Treville. The last time he’d been here was for their council of war. That had been a happy night.

“How is he?” he asked Porthos.

The big man shrugged. “How d’you think? I’ve got him out of those clothes. He’s had a bath. He’s got dressed, but he’s barely said a word.”

“Where is he now?” said Aramis, looking around the apartment and seeing no sign of Athos. 

“Lying down.”

“Get some glasses,” said Aramis, waving the bottle. “We could all do with a drink." Sleep might be a healer, but today it would do more harm than good. Right now, Athos needed to do the one thing he was worst at in the world: talk.

Confronted by yet another door, Aramis paused again. He’d never been in the bedroom. He only knew where it was from seeing Athos once emerge from here with rumpled clothes and messy hair.

Venturing inside, he found himself in near darkness, the heavy curtains drawn, the room lit only by an ugly brass lamp with a tasselled silk shade. The bed was a crumpled mess, and in it lay Athos, hands tucked behind his neck as he stared up at the ceiling.

Having nothing useful to say, Aramis lay down next to him and waited for the silence to break.

“He was a fucking idiot,” said Athos eventually in a clipped tone. “What right did he have to decide? That was my death. I deserved it. He didn’t.”

“He did it because without you we’ve lost,” said Aramis. “But most of all, he did it because he loved you. Don’t look at me like that.” Athos was staring at him with cold eyes. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have stepped in front of a bullet for him without hesitation, because I know you fucking well would.”

“Not the point,” said Athos, through gritted teeth.

“Exactly the point,” said Porthos, sitting on the bed next to him.

“But what am I going to do without him?” said Athos and all of a sudden he sounded wounded and frightened, too much like a lost child for anyone’s comfort.

“I’ll tell you what you’ll do.” Aramis wasn’t prepared to let Athos fall. “You’re going to mourn him, and you’re going to cry for him, and you're going to wish that you were dead too,” he said in a low voice. Porthos looked at him, eyes open wide in disbelief, but Aramis shook his head and signalled for him to pour the brandy. “But then,” he continued, “you’re going to remember why you’re here, and what he sacrificed for you, and you’re going to get on and do what you have to do in order to fix this shithole of a world. And you’re going to do it in his name, because he was a good man, the best of men, and he loved you and deserved nothing less.”

Pushing himself up to sitting, Athos leant against the headboard, glancing briefly at both men in turn. “Thank you,” he said, staring back at his hands which twisted together relentlessly, as if they had a will of their own.

Aramis passed around the cognac. “To Treville,” he said raising his glass.

“The best of men,” said Porthos.

Athos’ toast was a silent one as he swallowed down the spirit.

They passed the time talking trivialities, Athos doing his best to join in with the conversation. Aramis admired him for his bravery, but knew that grieving was a strange process and that it would hit much harder than this. Sooner rather than later, he hoped.

The next phase came when they were three quarters of the way down the bottle.

“I don’t understand why she did it. She was only ever after what she could get from a situation. It was all about her. What kind of threat did I pose to her?”

Athos ranted in endless churning rounds of miserable anger, questioning everything about his wife, at his own stupidity for believing her lies. 

There was no room in between the words for answers and, for that, Aramis was eternally grateful. The conclusion he had reached would not have helped Athos at all. As far as he could see, there was only one possible reason why a woman as self serving as Anne would have sacrificed her life, and that was because she wasn’t lying and she considered her child to be in danger. Perhaps the Oil Nations were out of resources and falling into chaos. Maybe Richelieu was a threat to her. 

 

\---

 

With no intention of leaving their friend to suffer alone, Aramis and Porthos hauled their kit bags up to the CO’s quarters, quite prepared to stay there as long as it took for Athos time to come to terms with Treville’s death.

Once all the practicalities had been dealt with, Ninon dropped by to see how things were going.

“Is he coping?” she asked, accepting a brandy from Aramis.

“Just about,” replied Aramis. “He and Porthos are asleep.” He looked at his watch. “They’ve been out for a couple of hours; I can wake them, if you like.”

“No. Don’t even think about it.” Ninon smiled wearily. “I’m glad he’s getting some rest.”

“Me too.” Aramis had tried to doze off with them. The bed was huge and there was plenty of room for three, but every time he closed his eyes he could see the dreadful events of the day happening all over again. “I should have been able to stop it,” he muttered, wringing his hands in despair. “It was my fucking job for years.”

“Anne de Breuil was a first class bitch. Normal rules don’t apply to her.” Ninon took a swig of her drink. “I don’t say things like that lightly.”

Aramis wondered how Athos could have fallen for such a woman. “She must have had some redeeming features.”

“A chameleon like ability to adapt to circumstance, combined with a strong desire to get on in life,” said Ninon. “Plus she was stunningly good looking which always helps disguise a rotten heart.”

Aramis had been taught never to speak ill of the dead and Ninon’s fierce anger unnerved him. “You weren’t fond of her then,” he said with an uncomfortable smirk.

“I despised her,” she answered. “She was the lowest of the low for selling out her country the way she did. Athos still insists on shouldering the blame for the _disease_ , but it’s all her fault.” With the brandy now gone, Ninon hunted in a cupboard and opened a bottle of wine. “You never met Athos before the war. You also never saw what he was like after Treville saved him from New Bas. If you had done then you’d hate her as much as I do.”

"Why did she do it?" asked Aramis, needing resolution. "Was it possible she was being blackmailed?" 

Ninon shook her head vehemently. "It was jealousy, pure and simple. She thought she’d destroyed Athos, but then he came back fighting with a network of friends. Even after she made sure his identity was revealed, everyone still stood by him. The final insult was when he took d'Artagnan off her. She’d lost the game and decided that the only way to regain the upper hand was for them both to die. Checkmate."

“More like stalemate.” Aramis mulled this over. It was crazy, but in some kind of warped way, it made sense -- if you were batshit crazy as she obviously was.

Ninon topped up both glasses with claret. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now. I’m raw and my insides are showing.”

“It’s good to talk,” said Aramis. In a strange way, her vitriolic release was helping him just as much.

“I’d argue that point normally,” said Ninon, “But today I don’t have the strength.” She stared into the contents of her glass. “There is one thing we need to discuss.”

“Which is?” Aramis swigged his wine. The alcohol wasn’t making a dent in his misery, but he’d have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.

“Treville’s funeral,” she said bluntly. “Athos will loathe the idea of a ceremony, but the regiment will expect it. Was he a religious man, do you know?”

Aramis could think of no past conversations that would lead him to this conclusion. The captain never wore a crucifix. “At a guess, I’d say he was secular.”

“A good thing too,” she said, “seeing as we have no padré here. I’ll organise a military service.”

“And Anne?” asked Aramis. 

“I’ll have a hole dug,” said Ninon, getting up to go. “Someone might throw her in if she’s lucky.”

Aramis saw Ninon to the door.

“I wish I believed in Hell,” were her parting words as she marched off down the corridor.

 

\---

 

It was the worst of evenings, worse still than when Porthos began to show symptoms That was a horrific day, but Aramis had been too busy keeping them safe to have a spare moment to think about the consequences. Tonight, there was all too much time and as he watched the seconds tick by on the mantel clock, he tried not to look at Athos who was picking at the food on his plate, lost as the events of the day looped in his head.

“Anne _is_ dead?” he asked, not for the first time.

“As a doornail, bro,” said Porthos, resting a hand on his shoulder. “D’Artagnan took her out with a clean shot to the head.”

Athos sat back, his eyes full of ‘if onlys’, trying to fix everything and put his small world back together.

_But no one can change the past._

Aramis wanted to scream these words out loud when he saw the same thing happening behind Porthos’ eyes. Yeah, maybe they should have been armed, but there was no current danger. The razor wire held back the creeps and the guards kept them informed of any suspicious activity. There was no reason for them to expect an attack and therefore no need to prepare for one. This was a shitty situation. Life was shit. So much for new beginnings.

“Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I’m knackered and there’s no point sitting here staring into space.”

Both men followed him silently, all of them getting washed on autopilot then falling into bed, and with Athos tucked safely between them, Aramis reached across to switch off the lamp.

“No,” said Porthos, shaking his head.

Aramis closed his eyes, trying to block out the light and the blood and that final expulsion of breath. Treville had been more than his commander. He’d been a stalwart in the face of despair, pulling Aramis back from the brink when life had been unbearable after he’d lost an entire troop to a terrorist bomb blast. More importantly than that, over the few months since he’d been here at Porton, Treville had become a friend. They’d shared hopes, secrets, had talked over the past and grown to rely on each other.

Aramis’ heart ached. A sob sat at the base of his throat waiting to be wrenched out of him. His eyes might have been screwed shut, but they stung with salt as tears leaked out from beneath his lashes.

Porthos reached out from the other side of the bed and grasped his hand, their arms forming a bridge, and with a shudder Athos struggled free of them and fought his way to the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the glowing heart of the silk shrouded night light.

Aramis didn’t know how to console him and was relieved when unsteady breaths turned into soft snores. He must have dropped off himself soon after, because he was aware of nothing else until he awoke shivering from where the covers had been pulled back. Porthos was fast asleep next to him--the man could win medals for it--but Athos was gone.

Aramis found him in the bathroom, sitting on the tiled floor, head buried as he hugged his knees. He was crying so hard that Aramis’ broken heart fractured a little bit more. This wasn’t sobbing. These were wracking, painful outpourings of utter misery, muffled as his mouth pressed against material, the grey marl sweatpants wet with tears and spit and snot.

“Crying’s good,” said Aramis. “But let’s do it somewhere warm.” Without ceremony, he grabbed Athos by the biceps and heaved him upwards into his arms.

“Gonna be sick,” said Athos, rushing for the washbasin. He retched, but nothing came up--misery had no substance--and after a while, Aramis wet a clean flannel and washed that swollen, stained face.

“You were right,” said Athos, choking back tears. “I do want to die.” 

“But you won’t.” Aramis held him. “Because you’re strong. You’ve come through so much.”

“With him there.” Athos collapsed against Aramis, weakening as the crying began all over again.

Aramis tried to get Athos to the bedroom, manoeuvring a path across the darkly lit apartment, the geography of which he had only a vague knowledge. Woken by the commotion, Porthos guided them into bed and as Aramis wrapped Athos up in blankets and care, Porthos spooned up against his shivering back. The claustrophobia was secondary. He could fight free of them later if it became necessary.

Comfort was a three way thing. They all needed it and they all cried together. Words were useless. Aramis had said his piece earlier. What _was_ there to say that could help a man who’d just had his entire world snatched away from him?


	15. Chapter 15

“I need to see Treville,” said Athos, next morning as he stared into the mirror, preparing to face an empty new world.

He was calm, rational in his thoughts, but Aramis was concerned. “I can’t see why not,” he said cagily, though he’d check first. He didn’t want Athos to be faced with the sight of Treville lying naked in a body bag with his chest caved in.

“Not sure if it’s the best idea, bro,” said Porthos, looking anxiously at Aramis.

“I’m a doctor. I _am_ familiar with death,” said Athos. “I know he won’t be wearing his Sunday best with his face neatly painted.” He grimaced. “But I need to know that he’s gone.”

“I understand,” said Aramis. This was a vital part of the grieving process for some, and there wasn’t much of a window as the funeral was due to be held that afternoon. No one could see any point in prolonging matters. Treville was a man of action and would have liked his death to be treated in the same way. No messing about.

After breakfast, the three of them made their way to the small mortuary that was attached to the old hospital: a place which brought back unhappy memories for them all. Aramis could still hear the echoes of Treville’s voice begging him to help Athos. That’s when he first understood how important they were to each other.

There were two bodies, bagged up and placed neatly in storage. Aramis hesitated over the larger of the two.

“I’m not expecting him to rise from the dead, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Athos. “I just have to know.”

Aramis unzipped the plastic. The arcane knowledge that a soul had now departed always came as a shock to him when he was viewing the body of someone he was close to. What was left was nothing more than a slab of flesh: solid, liquid, gas, soon to be nothing.

“In my head, it was a monstrous practical joke,” said Athos, holding Treville’s hand just for a moment and then letting it fall from his grasp. 

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t say any words over the body, but he stared for a long time. It reminded Aramis of those intimate looks the two men had exchanged, only this time it was different. Tragic.

“Now her,” said Athos, unzipping the next bag before either Porthos or Aramis had a chance to stop him.

Even in death she was a beautiful woman. Even with her head misshapen because the back of the skull had been blown away. Even with all her lies and schemes and murders. Even then.

“She said I was naïve, and I suppose she was right.” Athos looked down at her. “If I hadn’t been such a fool. If I hadn’t believed her for that split second then Treville would be alive.”

“That belief in people is what makes you a good man,” said Porthos, slipping an arm around Athos’ waist.

“But still the reason that he’s dead.”

 

\---

 

When asked about the service, Athos had only one request which was that they did not perform a gun salute. “He’d hate the waste of ammo,” he said with a wry twitch of the lips. 

In the end it was a quiet affair. There was no bugler to play the Sonnerie aux Morts and no eulogies in the chapel, but as the body was lowered into the ground, the Tricolore folded and placed into the grave, there was so much respect and sadness present that a chill rolled up Aramis’ spine. A good man had been taken from them and was now laid to rest.

Standing next to Athos, Aramis could feel him shaking, but he carried himself with dignity and if his left hand hadn’t been clutching at Ninon’s then nobody would have noticed he was upset.

The wake also was quiet. Some serious drinking was done, as was to be expected, but there was no inappropriate behaviour. Mostly, people sat around in groups and paid their respects, telling happy stories about their commander rather than layering themselves in misery.

Aramis couldn’t address the regiment, overwrought, as he was, with sympathy for Athos. In public, the man had no choice but to bear this as nothing more than the loss of a comrade, when in reality Treville had been his in every way possible.

Aramis remembered words spoken from the heart: _One morning I woke up and knew, for certain, that I would never love anyone as much as I did him._ Memories twisted around on themselves, focusing inwards, and all he could think of now was how terrified he’d been at the idea of losing Porthos to the _disease_. It was too much and he became distraught, overwhelmed by his emotions and horribly close to crying in front of the whole mess.

“What now?” he said, his throat scratchy from grief.

Athos looked up and there was a bleakness about him that was new. “We do as planned, with you in command of the regiment.” Once again, Aramis shook his head, baulking at the idea, but Athos persisted. “The men respect you and, more importantly, they like you. They’ll grow to love you as they did Treville. We need you to do this, Aramis.”

At any other time, under any other circumstances, Aramis would refuse, but now, when he was pushing Athos to step up and stay strong, how could he do anything but accept and try his hardest to be a good CO.

He agreed reluctantly, but at the first opportunity drew Athos, Ninon and Porthos to one side for a quiet word.

“I appreciate how much faith you have in me, but I’m not ready for this,” he said, ignoring Porthos who rolled his eyes and shook his head in disapproval.

“None of us are ready for anything,” said Ninon. “But we’re out of options. Porthos here is far more suited to be in charge of training and ordnance than the minutiae of command. I spend most of my time off base.”

“Then why not you, Athos,” said Aramis stubbornly. “You’re a fucking colonel.”

“No, I’m a fucking traitor and that’s how they’ll always see me,” said Athos with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Plus I’ll be spending most of my time at the facility.”

“Aramis, you know you’ll be bloody good at it,” said Porthos. “So just shut up and take the job, will you.”

Following Athos out for a cigarette, Aramis sat next to him on the steps, passing over a hip flask of whisky in exchange for a fag. “I appreciate your kind words,” he said, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “But I still don’t think I’m up to command.”

“When have you ever known me use _kind words_?” Athos smirked at him. “Like it or not, I speak the truth. You may not _want_ to do it, but you’ll be good.”

Aramis frowned. This last statement was a little too close for comfort. “And how are you holding up?” he asked, changing the subject to a more important topic.

“I haven’t burst into tears yet, so that’s a good sign.” Athos let out a single miserable sigh. “I know what I must do, but I’m struggling to see a future.”

“It _will_ get better, love,” said Aramis, squeezing his fingers briefly. “I promise.”

“I’m scared.” Athos turned to look at him through eyes which were huge and too blue. “Frankly, I’m terrified. Enough to slit my wrists.”

“We won’t let you do that,” said Aramis, caught in the throes of panic.

“Don’t fret. I won’t let myself do it,” said Athos, sucking in a deep breath of smoke. “But you asked how I was feeling and that’s the most accurate summary I can give you.”

 

\---

 

This revelation wasn’t the reason why Aramis and Porthos wouldn’t leave Athos alone that night. They were never going to do that and were determined to stay with him, despite the fact that he stubbornly refused to go to bed with them.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I don’t need looking after.”

“We disagree,” said Aramis. “And so does Ninon.”

“So, like it or not, you’re stuck with us,” growled Porthos.

Eventually, after two brandies and a small huff of annoyance, Athos gave in and Aramis was glad of it, because during the small hours his nightmares returned with a vengeance. It was too distressing for words. Both Aramis and Porthos broke down as they tried to ease him out of the dreams, only to have him wake up calling for Treville, unaware, in this semi-conscious state, that his partner was dead.

Athos woke next morning, bad tempered and angry that they’d stayed with him. Ashamed of his problems, he tried to pull away, but neither Porthos nor Aramis were putting up with that kind of nonsense.

“Do you _want_ to go back on medication?” said Aramis bluntly, after being on the end of a rally of a fierce glares and pointed remarks.

“No,” admitted Athos, looking down at his plate of toast.

“Then let us help you through this,” said Aramis.

“We want to,” said Porthos. “So stop shoving us away.” He reached out to lay his hand over Athos’ smaller one. “It’s okay to hurt, bro. It’s okay to need us. We’re here for you.”

Agitated, but out of options Athos conceded with a small nod of the head. “The last thing I want is to be a nuisance.”

“Never,” said Aramis, meaning it with all his heart.


	16. Chapter 16

Life went on, as it always did. They were extraordinarily busy setting up camp at Larkhill and though it was hard to focus at times, this was a good thing for everyone.

Remi had vanished into thin air and so there was no need for disciplinaries or interrogation to take place, something for which Aramis was extraordinarily grateful, being unsure how to deal with such matters. Ninon was less happy and had been off base a lot searching for the man, returning from one particular mission with a satisfied look on her face.

“He won't be reporting back to anyone,” is all that she would say on the subject.

The announcement that Aramis would take over command was made at their first regimental dinner night, and the news went down extremely well. Aramis was humbled, but a very proud man.

“Thank you all,” he said. “We’ve got some tough times ahead of us, and I appreciate your support. All I can say is let’s knuckle down and get on with it.”

It was the shortest speech in history and, for that reason, it probably got the loudest round of applause. 

After a few more weeks of procrastination, Aramis was finally setting up his office and was currently perched on his desk, thumbing through reams of paperwork. Why, when the world had fallen apart, was there still so much admin, he wondered. What the fuck was he supposed to do with it? He’d give anything for some fatherly advice from Treville right now.

Distraction came in the form of a knock at the door, and Aramis was thrilled to see Porthos poking his head into the room.

“Hello, sir,” Porthos said with a grin.

“You can cut that crap for starters.”

“Athos always called Treville sir.” Porthos’ smile grew wider. “And anyway I kind of like it. I can’t wait to have my cock in sir’s arse. How about I fuck sir on that big old desk right now.”

Aramis was flustered: outrageously turned on at the idea, but at the same time horrified. “Not a chance, big boy,” he said, hoping his erection would go away. With Athos as a permanent bed partner and so much work to get on with, they were missing out on their regular sex. 

“Give me a nod when you’re free and I’ll whisk you off to one of the lock ups in the armoury.”

Aramis leaned in and kissed Porthos swiftly on the mouth. “Thank you for being understanding,” he said.

“What’s not to understand?” Porthos squeezed his bum. “I know you still want me. It’s just difficult to find time for it at the moment. We’ll get there.”

“How are things at Porton?” said Aramis, changing the subject before he fell under the spell of his strong and sensitive man and had to have him immediately.

Porthos had been over there to see how the rehabilitation programme was going. “It’s coming along good,” he said. “I reckon I’ll have a small squad of F’s to drill soon.”

“Brilliant news,” said Aramis. “And our boy?” They were both ridiculously protective of Athos, knowing how much he was hurting and how well he was shielding his pain from others. 

“Working too hard,” said Porthos with a look of irritation. “He’s got a team trained up to produce the antiserum, and now he’s scribbling stuff and shouting a lot.”

Aramis had spent a lot of time doing research with Athos and that could mean anything. “I’ll fetch him home in time for dinner,” he said. 

After a couple of weeks living at the old flat they’d finally persuaded Athos to decamp to Larkhill. The apartment here was bigger and brighter, and it too contained happy memories of Treville from their overnight stay a few months ago. This had turned out to be a positive move as the nightmares were becoming less frequent. Athos still had moments of near hysteria, locking himself away from everyone, but it was early days and only to be expected.

“I’ll see you both in the mess later,” said Porthos, kissing him goodbye. “I’ve got a hot date with some missile launchers.”

 

\---

 

Glad of the excuse to be away from his desk, Aramis saddled up the new horses they’d adopted, and with Athos’ favourite gelding, Roger, on a lunge he rode across the bridleways and fields to Porton. The sun was returning, trees were budding, and soon he’d have to think about setting up a work detail to put his kitchen garden plan into action.

Tethering the horses in the woods outside the facility, he keyed in the code and strode down the central corridor that lead to the main lab, popping his head into the rehab rooms on the way.

D’Artagnan was chatting away to one of his team who was helping him put away equipment. 

“Sir.” The soldier turned to Aramis, saluting smartly and it was only then that Aramis recognised him as Fred, their first success.

He returned the salute. “Fred, you look great in fatigues.”

“I got tired of wearing scrubs.”

“I bet you did.” Aramis grinned.

“Freddie’s my number one man,” said d’Artagnan. “He secretly runs the place. I’m his deputy.”

“I can believe that,” said Aramis. “Porthos wasn’t wrong when he said progress was being made. You’re doing really well.”

“Constance has been fantastic,” said d’Artagnan. “She’s a great teacher. We have a team of guys working in the kitchen and another unit who love doing the cleaning.”

“No problems with aggressive behaviour?” asked Aramis. It was the thing he'd worried about most. The last thing they wanted to do was build an army of violent marauders.

“Not so far,” said d'Artagnan. “We keep tranqs on us at all times, just to be safe, but there’s never been an incident.”

“Happy to be back,” said Fred from the corner.

“Hello, Aramis,” said Constance, bustling into the therapy room, her arms laden with boxes. “It’s good to see you. Are you here to fetch Athos?”

Aramis hadn’t realised he’d been being quite so motherly in his behaviour recently and blushed. “I am. I can’t have him missing his tea.”

“He’s not here,” said d’Artagnan. “He buggered off early. He’s been in an odd mood all day.”

“It’s been two months,” said Constance in a low voice. “Exactly two months.”

Aramis closed his eyes. He’d been rushed off his feet taking control of the regiment and making sure that Athos didn’t fall into a well of misery. He didn’t have the time to think about dates.

“He was quiet,” said Constance, “But he’s okay. I expect we can both guess where he’ll be”

Unaware that she knew about their relationship, Aramis was grateful for her kindness and discretion. From the baffled look on d’Artagnan’s face, it appeared she hadn’t even told him.

“Thank you, Constance,” he said. “I’ll go get him.”

Still kicking himself for not remembering, Aramis left the facility and mounted up, leading the other horse behind him.

The small cemetery was bathed in the final rays of the afternoon sun and it wasn’t hard to spot the figure sitting cross legged by the grave. Without that cloak of sarcasm in place, Athos always seemed so much smaller.

“Hey there,” said Aramis, coming to sit next to him. “Did you not hear me calling you in for your dinner?”

Athos glanced sideways and smiled. “You and Porthos need to adopt a family. I’m too old, by the way.”

“I’m sorry I forgot the date,” said Aramis.

“It’s not a proper anniversary,” said Athos. “I just needed to talk to him.”

You have us to talk to, Aramis wanted to say, but he knew it wasn’t the same. “Sloping off early is unacceptable,” he said with a smile. “There is a war on, you know.”

“I’ve finished my work,” said Athos. “Theoretically at least. I’ve tested it airborne with a group of F’s and D’s and the results are positive. All I need to do now is think about rocketry and dispersal. I was mulling it over with him.” He reached out and laid an open palm on the ground in front of him.

Aramis slung an arm over his shoulder. “You can mull things over with me too,” he said.

“But you’ll say something stupid and spoil my train of thought.” Athos smirked at him.

“Bugger off, you git,” said Aramis affectionately. “You’d better watch it, or I won’t share my new batch of dope with you.”

“This is your problem; you’re way too dopey for successful research.”

“Git,” said Aramis again, leaning back on his elbows and feeling slightly guilty. “I can’t imagine Treville getting stoned in the long grass.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about him,” said Athos with a smile that was full of memories.

 

\---

 

It had been a weird day, happiness homogenising with sadness to create this surreal atmosphere. Perhaps it was finally the new beginning they’d all been waiting for.

Blazed from weed and buzzed on a skinful of wine, Aramis and Porthos sneaked out of bed that night, heading to the bathroom for some fun. 

“I missed this,” said Aramis as he knelt in the shower, licking the water droplets from Porthos' cock before taking it into his mouth.

“Yeah,” moaned Porthos, his hand tangled into Aramis’ hair. “So good, darling.”

Pressed up against the cold tiles, Aramis angled his head and opened his throat, letting Porthos use him in the very best way. Wrapping a hand around his cock, he began to masturbate.

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” said Athos. “I just wanted a piss. I’ll go use one of the other bathrooms.”

The door slammed shut.

“Why didn’t we use the fucking lock?” said Aramis.

“Because we forgot,” said Porthos simply. “He’s gone now.” He pulled Aramis up and hiked him into his arms. “I want you.”

Too far gone to think about anything other than sex, Aramis slid down onto Porthos’ cock, humming out his need, murmuring his love as they began to fuck hard, beautifully, together.

Over too soon, they held each other, the warmth of the shower water tumbling over them as they kissed themselves back down to earth. 

“Do you think he’s upset?” said Aramis afterwards as he dried off on a towel.

“Nope. Not Athos,” said Porthos. “Sad maybe, but not upset.” He pulled on his sleep pants. “It evens things out. We’ve seen him having a fuck.”

“Not the same and you know it.” 

Aramis wasn’t sure why he was so freaked out by this. There was, however, no need to be concerned, because when they returned, somewhat sheepishly, to the bedroom, Athos was fine. He hadn’t run off to suffer his misery alone. He was fast asleep and snoring gently, curled up on the outer reaches of the bed, in his usual place.

 

\---

 

Relieved that Porthos was right, Aramis settled into the job of command, making sure he had more time to spend with Porthos during the day to ease their level of frustration. There were always moments to steal here and there, and the spontaneity of this made sex a lot more exciting.

With Ninon recently returned from a mission on the continent, she and Athos frequently had their heads together, arguing back and forth as they discussed alternative ways forward. Aramis didn’t get involved, being of the same opinion as Treville, that they must plough ahead, train up the F’s and rebuild the army.

Their request to see Aramis was a formal one. He hadn’t received many of these, thinking himself as more of a manager than a commanding officer.

“What can I do for you both?” he said, his feet up on the desk, feeling rather awkward at the crossover of roles: bedfellow, friend and commander did not meld comfortably together, although Treville had managed it well enough.

Athos was standing to attention, clearly more used to the way of things. “Ninon and I need to go to the Weapons Research Centre at Aldermaston to have a dig around and see what we can discover.”

He didn’t add a sir, and for that Aramis was grateful. “We have ballistics galore here,” he said.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, Athos leaned forward to talk, exactly the way he'd used to with Treville. “But not the right kind,” he said urgently. 

“Treville had already suggested that he and I take a trip up there,” said Ninon. “It is important.”

“Then you and I should go.”

Athos let out this sound of utter frustration. “For god’s sake, Aramis, stop this now,” he hissed. “Treville was only going because I was busy here at the facility. This is my work. Do you understand? This is what I’m supposed to be doing. What you asked me to do.”

Standing a few feet away from them, with her hands tucked neatly behind her back, Ninon nodded in agreement, and Aramis had no choice but to concede the argument. He had no reason to deny their request, other than a desire to wrap Athos up in cotton wool, which was utterly disrespectful to him. He and Ninon had been on countless missions together and survived. Athos might be grief stricken at present, but he was a lot sounder than when they’d first met.

“You shouldn’t yell at your CO,” said Aramis. “But I suppose it’s a hard habit to break.” Reaching out, he let his hand come to rest over Athos’. “I agree in principle.”

“You’re making a bloody awful fuss over what’s essentially an eighty mile round trip,” said Athos. He had a warm smile when he bothered to use it. “I doubt we’ll be gone more than two days, and most of the time we’ll be in a nice safe RAF base.”

But it was the getting there that set Aramis’ nerves on edge. “We could go as a unit,” he said. “You, me, Porthos and Ninon.”

“But you’re both needed here,” said Ninon. “You can live without Athos for a weekend. I promise I’ll return him in good condition.”

“I know, I know. I’m being an idiot,” said Aramis, scraping a hand through his hair in frustration.

“No. You’re being a good CO,” said Ninon.

After a short discussion, during which they went over the finer details, they were about to leave the office when, at the last minute, Aramis called Athos back for a private word.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with what happened in the bathroom, does it?”

“How on earth could you even arrive at that conclusion?” Athos was clearly baffled.

“The last thing we wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Aramis, you worry too much.” Athos smirked. “You’re partners; of course you fuck.” He paused. “But, I’m glad you raised the subject, because I will be moving to my own quarters as soon as I get back from Aldermaston. I’ve invaded your privacy for long enough.” Leaning across the desk, he kissed Aramis briefly on the lips. “Thank you for not arguing.”

On the point of doing just that, Aramis was silenced by these final words from his friend. Emotions all over the place, he said nothing and simply watched Athos turn and go, his eyes fixed to the man’s back as he left the room.

 

\---

 

It was an unceremonious departure. With the jeep packed with basic equipment and Ninon in the driving seat tapping her fingers in exasperation, Athos said a final goodbye to his friends.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Aramis.

“The last stupid thing I did was pick up a couple of stragglers from Paris, and look where that got me.” Athos smiled.

“He means it, bro. _We_ mean it,” said Porthos, his voice a warning rumble. “No pissing about.”

_Don’t make this one of your suicide missions._ Ignoring the hiss of frustration from Athos, Aramis tried to say it with his eyes. “Be safe,” he murmured, using Athos’ outstretched hand to haul him into a hug and then passing him over to Porthos.

“We’ll see you in three days tops,” called Athos as he jumped into the jeep and lit a cigarette.

Aramis breathed in the smell of smoke and hoped it would be two days rather than three.

After a week, when Athos and Ninon were still not back, he and Porthos began to fear the worst.


	17. Chapter 17

A month had gone by now. Aramis had tried hardening his heart, remembering the cold side of Athos. That callous bastard who’d held a gun to Porthos’ head and had been seconds away from shooting him. The man who’d snapped that little boy's neck as if it were a twig. None of these things worked.

He then focused on how Athos had driven Treville to distraction, going off on ridiculous missions without consulting anyone. This was probably no more serious than that. They’d found nothing at Aldermaston and so had headed north to those other RAF bases they’d been talking about in Oxfordshire.

To take his mind off things, Aramis had been designing his garden, using a team of F’s--they had to stop calling them that--to dig out plots and set up polytunnels. A raid to a nearby horticultural centre had been most productive as far as this was concerned.

“It’s looking good,” said Porthos, taking time out of his training schedule to pay a visit.

“If only we were setting up a commune rather than trying to win a war it’d be fantastic,” snapped Aramis, and instantly felt guilty. He shouldn't take it out on Porthos. He wasn’t the one to have authorised Athos and Ninon’s trip. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay, love,” said Porthos, and checking first that there were no onlookers he kissed Aramis on the forehead. “I’m missing him too. You know that. It’s not your fault though. You’ve got to start believing that, or else you’ll go mad.”

Aramis heaved in a breath. How could he explain to Porthos that he was feeling too much? The loss of Athos was hitting him harder than it should have done, but this had no bearing on his feelings for Porthos. He loved him more than ever.

“It hurts,” he said in a low voice.

Porthos nodded. “It does,” he admitted. “Maybe he’s got too far under our skin.”

“We’ll talk about this tonight,” said Aramis with a nervous smile. Days were set aside for working, along with the occasional fuck. “I’m hacking over to see how things are going at the facility. Want to come with me?”

“Sounds like a grand idea,” said Porthos. “I’ll leave Serge in charge of the F’s. They’ll tell him what he should be doing.”

 

\---

 

They took a winding route through to Porton, enjoying being outside again after such a long and miserable winter. Last year they would have stopped somewhere for a screw, but right now sex wasn’t uppermost in their minds. Being together was.

“Did you notice there’s a lot less creeps around,” said Porthos as they arrived at the facility.

“Most of them are either here, or at Larkhill,” said Aramis, patting Roger’s flank as he dismounted.

“Not enough,” said Porthos ominously. “We haven’t exactly got an army on our side. Although we’re well prepared if the enemy need some cleaning done.” He grinned and keyed in the entrance code.

The research centre had become a small town, bustling with activity. Aramis was more proud and more positive every time he came here, but recently this had been tinged with an ever growing sadness that Athos wasn’t around to take pride in it too.

“Are they back?” said d’Artagnan, rushing up to greet them.

“No, sorry.” Aramis could’ve kicked himself. They needed to get comms sorted out. It was ridiculous being in the dark all the time, but there were so many things to do. “No news yet.”

D’Artagnan’s face fell. “Let me take a bunch of the guys and go look for them. Please.”

By guys, d’Artagnan meant his F’s and that wasn’t going to happen. Not until they’d been drilled to perfection.

“I’m afraid not,” said Aramis. He’d been through this a thousand times in his head, trying to think like Treville. There was no point in risking all over two personnel.

“We know where they are,” said d’Artagnan, looking from Aramis to Porthos and back again.

“We know where they were _supposed_ to be going,” said Aramis. “But that doesn’t mean it’s where they ended up. They’d been discussing at least a dozen different locations that I know of.”

He and Porthos had privately agreed that if they've heard nothing in two weeks then they'd send out a recce party to Aldermaston, but they wouldn’t go off half cocked. Athos and Ninon had both been known to vanish for months at a time.

“I disagree,” said d’Artagnan. “But you’re the CO.”

“It’s how Treville would have handled it,” said Porthos in his most reassuring voice.

“It is,” agreed d’Artagnan, with an apologetic smile. “Look, I've got to go. I’ve agreed to give Fred a driving lesson. He’s been nagging me for weeks.”

“Good luck,” said Aramis, patting him on the back in commiseration. “Rather you than me.”

After a mooch around the therapy department and a quick chat to Constance, Porthos and Aramis made their way back to the horses and mounted up.

“I _am_ right, aren’t I?” said Aramis. “You know I want nothing more than to go off and get him.”

“Of course, you do. That’s how you operate,” said Porthos. “Impetuous with no thought for the consequences. But you can’t be like that now.” He paused, lost for a moment.

“What?” said Aramis.

Porthos looked at him. “I just hope some bastard hasn’t got him locked up somewhere. I’d rather he was dead than have to suffer that.”

Aramis took off at a canter, needing to escape the images that had come to mind.

“He’ll be okay, love,” said Porthos as he caught him up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“You say anything to me,” said Aramis fervently. “You say _everything_. We don’t hide from each other.”

Porthos grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. “He’ll be fine. You know he will. He and Ninon’ll come waltzing in, full of themselves and telling us all about this new plan of action they’ve come up with.”

“Then, please let it happen soon,” said Aramis, squeezing back harder.

 

\----

 

Trying to be nonchalant about it was the hardest thing of all. Neither Athos nor Ninon were particular favourites with the regiment, and had been absent more than they were present in the daily lives of the men.

Things were different for those more personally involved. The six members of the council of war--seven if you included Treville, which Aramis still did--were a close knit core. Working together, strategising together, _being_ together, they’d become co-dependent, and it was hard to have three taken away from them in such quick succession.

“Is this going to get any easier?” said Aramis, turning onto his side and resting his head on Porthos’ chest.

They’d spent the last two hours making love, switching positions over and over until they finally came together in a slow build orgasm, one triggering the other.

“I hope so,” said Porthos, kissing the top of his head. “Are we ready to talk, babe?”

Aramis wasn’t sure, but he felt they ought to try. “Before he left, Athos told me he was going to find new quarters as soon as he was home. He said he’d invaded our privacy for long enough.”

“He _would_ think that.” Despite everything, Porthos smiled fondly.

“I should have told him that he was wrong, and that it was out of the question, but I didn’t. I said nothing.”

“Because we hadn’t talked about this yet,” said Porthos, stroking his hair. “I don’t think either of us even knew.”

Aramis shook his head. It was strange. He hadn’t been lying in bed, longing for Athos’ body. That was out of bounds anyway; Athos had loved Treville far too much. But he’d been perfectly content with the three of them together. Perfect. Happy. Whole. 

“What do we do?” he said.

“When he comes home we tell him,” said Porthos. “The way you told me. We tell him we love him.”


	18. Chapter 18

Eight days later there was a commotion that could be heard all the way through the main building. The sound of a distant motorbike had put Aramis on alert, but the noise as it slewed around on the gravel followed by the crash of the main doors was enough to have him leaping up from his desk and running through to the lobby.

Athos was standing there, soaked from the rain, filthy dirty and wearing nothing more than a pair of combats and a mud stained t-shirt. It was his eyes that bothered Aramis the most, full of fierce anger.

“I need a couple of squads of men,” he said and when no one moved he yelled: “Now!” in a voice that was hoarse from exhaustion.

“Athos, come with me,” ordered Aramis. He turned to Jacques. “Go get Porthos. Tell him to come to my quarters, then take the truck to Porton and pick up d’Artagnan and Constance from the facility.” 

The youngster nodded and raced off.

“You don’t understand,” said Athos through clenched teeth, fighting to get away from the grip Aramis’ was exerting on his wrist. “The Guard are here. They have Ninon. We have to get her out before they kill her.”

“We’re not doing anything until we formulate a plan,” said Aramis. He lowered his voice. “And you’re not going anywhere in this state. Upstairs now.”

Athos wilted, nervous energy dissipating to be replaced by an onset of shivers. Once inside his quarters, with the door firmly shut, Aramis could finally do what he’d been needing to for the last ten minutes and drew Athos into a hug.

“Calmer now?” he said as Athos pulled free and flopped onto the sofa and, walking over to the sideboard, he poured two glasses of wine from an open bottle, handing one to the shattered man.

Athos took it with a nod of thanks. “This doesn’t alter the fact that we need to go and get her.”

“When the others arrive we’ll work out a plan, but for now I’m going to run you a bath and find you some clean clothes.”

Athos nodded again, the fight gone out of him as he followed Aramis to the bathroom, letting him strip him of his wet fatigues and wrap a bathrobe around him while the tub was filling.

“The Guard are here?” asked Aramis carefully. “With Richelieu?”

Athos shook his head and sipped his wine. “A cunt called Rochefort. I’d heard of him, but up until now I’d never had the pleasure of meeting him. He kills indiscriminately.” He looked up as the bathroom door opened. “Hello, Porthos.”

“It’s bloody good to see you, you fucker.”

It was amusing to see Athos dragged unwillingly into one of those infamous bearhugs and Aramis laughed, his chest aching from the effort. He hadn’t put those muscles to use for a couple of months.

“Put him down,” he said, turning off the taps. “His bath’s ready.”

“Do I have to?” said Porthos with a grin.

“Yes, you do,” said Athos, his voice muffled by Porthos’ barrel chest. “I’ve told you about this before.”

With a sigh of disappointment, Porthos released him and, stripping out of his bathrobe and underwear, Athos climbed into the hot water with a murmur of relief, relaxing back as Aramis filled Porthos in on the news.

“So this Rochefort bloke got hold of you at Aldermaston?” said Porthos.

”Yes.” Athos frowned. “We were expecting creeps and maybe some yobs, but not the fucking Guard. We were lazy; we should’ve recced the place first, but it seemed quiet enough.” He swallowed the last of his wine. “I don’t think they’re spearheading an invasion, but there's a reason we have to move quickly. There was serious funding being ploughed into developing new weapons at that site before the war kicked off. If they get their hands on any of it then we’re in the deepest shit ever.”

“So we rescue Ninon from Aldermaston and then eliminate the place,” said Aramis.

“Piece of cake,” said Porthos.

“Not quite,” said Athos. “Ninon’s not there. We were held at the Central Government War HQ where Rochefort and his troops have set up base. After we rescue her we have to get what we need from Aldermaston then blow up the place without causing a nuclear incident big enough to destroy half the planet.” He smiled wearily at Porthos. “How’s your cake looking now?”

“Smaller and less appetising,” admitted the big man. “I’ll fetch some wine instead.”

Aramis watched Athos wash his hair. It was getting long now with the curl straightened out and it reminded Aramis of that time on the train with Ninon offering to give him a trim. How much more loss could the man cope with before falling apart?

“We’ll get her back,” he said, gripping Athos by the shoulder.

“I know,” said Athos and there was no uncertainty there. Any doubt in his mind would probably cause the house of cards to come tumbling down. “We leave tomorrow.”

“We leave when we’re prepared,” countered Aramis.

“D'Artagnan and Constance are here,” said Porthos, sticking his head around the door and interrupting the argument that was about to kick off.

“Get them up to speed,” said Aramis. “We’ll be out in a minute.” He turned back to Athos who was rinsing off suds and ready to get out. “How was it in there?”

“Much like New Bas, but without the creeps.” Athos shivered as he climbed out and Aramis wrapped a towel around him. “I’m due a break, I think.”

“You are,” said Aramis, examining him surreptitiously for sign of injury as he got dressed. He was thinner than usual but his skin was unmarred and for that Aramis was grateful, although it didn’t mean they hadn’t used psych techniques to try and extract information.

“How did you get out?” he asked as they made their way to the living room.

“Sheer bloody mindedness.” Athos glanced sideways and smirked. “Phobias can be a great motivational tool.”

His defences were up and Aramis didn’t like that. He’d grown accustomed to Athos being honest with them. They’d seen him at his most raw. There was no need for barriers.

“Athos!” It was a touching sight to see the two youngest pile in and him accept them with open arms. 

“We thought you were dead,” said d’Artagnan.

“Of course not.” Athos was smiling, although it was plain that he was struggling under the weight of his exhaustion. “There’d be no one at the facility to tell you off for misbehaving.” Collapsing onto the sofa, he held out his hand for a glass. “I don’t suppose you brought Treville’s collection of maps over from Porton, by any chance?”

“In the cabinet next to my desk.” Aramis handed d'Artagnan the key. He was young and fit and the CO’s job was to delegate.

“I specifically need the MOD maps of Berkshire and Wiltshire, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees, wine glass resting between the fingers of one hand as he gestured impatiently for the young man to go with the other. He turned his attention to Porthos. “How many troops do we have ready for action?”

“Depends what you mean by ready,” said Porthos. “We have three squads of really good soldiers and four more who are competent enough.”

“And transport? Has that improved since I’ve been gone?”

“No,” admitted Aramis. “It’s decidedly worse, to be honest. We’re running out of fuel.”

“I’ve got a solution for that,” said Athos. “Ninon and I came across a hidden MOD fuel dump which seems largely untouched. Christ knows how, but it’s been forgotten. There are plenty of abandoned vehicles in the vicinity.”

“Excellent,” said Porthos.

“In the meantime, do we have enough fuel to get everyone to…” He looked around him. “Where is that boy? I need the maps now.”

“He’s only been gone a couple of minutes,” said Porthos. “Chill out, brother.”

Athos glared at him. “Do you have any understanding of how much the Guard loathe Ninon?” he hissed. “She’s been a thorn in their side since the beginning of the war. Worse still, she worked deep cover within the heart of the ONA for years and Richelieu will want to forcibly extract everything she knows.” He dropped his gaze and lost focus. “My only hope is that they’ll choose to take her back to France for questioning and that we can get her out of there before interrogation.”

D’Artagnan returned to a room that was heavy with an uncomfortable silence, handing the bundle of maps over and looking around him at the miserable faces.

“Here,” Athos said, sifting through and then stabbing at the heart of Wiltshire. “This is where they’ve holed up. It’s a nightmare. A cold war bunker that was home to the government in the event of a nuclear attack.”

“Can we get in?” said Porthos in a subdued voice. 

“I got out, so I’m sure I can retrace my steps.” 

Athos turned that precious warm smile on Porthos and Aramis could sense the waves of relief from his boyfriend. He hated being the cause of any upset.

“Do I get to use my bazookas?” Porthos said.

Aramis shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. “We’ll go in dark and hope to rescue her without attracting too much attention.”

Athos nodded, rearranging the papers in his hand and trying to disguise a yawn. “After that’s done we head to Aldermaston. If we go along the 303 we can stop off at the fuel depot. Otherwise we do that on the way back.”

“We do all this in one go?” said d’Artagnan.

“Ninon is our priority, but we have to stop Richelieu from getting hold of the weapons research,” said Athos. “It should have been destroyed by the English government, but I suppose the bio-attacks changed everything.”

“That’s enough for now,” said Aramis taking the maps from Athos’ hands. The man was shaking from tiredness and needed food and then bed. “D’Artagnan, Constance, get Jacques to drive you home, but before you leave could you go to the kitchens and have them send dinner for three to my quarters?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” chuckled d’Artagnan as he and Constance headed for the door.

The three men sat in row like the wise monkeys, too tired, too stressed, too emotional to do anything other than sit and drink. The meal, when it arrived, was a tonic. The chef and his team had managed to rustle up some kind of fresh meat for them, and it tasted so good that Aramis was not going to question what species of animal it came from.

He was finding it hard to restrain himself from hovering over Athos. He and Porthos had agreed to have that long overdue talk as soon as he was returned safely to them, but this was not an appropriate time. Instead, they topped up his glass and piled up his plate, relieved to see him tuck in and eat.

“I miss TV,” said Porthos, apropos of nothing, as they lounged together on the sofa after the food was eaten and a couple of bottles had been downed. All three men stared at the disused flat screen on the wall.

“Me too,” said Aramis. Strangely enough, he’d never thought of it before.

“Me three,” said Athos. “I liked cartoons.” He looked slightly offended when the other two laughed at him. “Escapism,” he said defensively. “Anything can happen in a cartoon.”

“And there was I thinking you’d watch something highbrow and artsy,” said Porthos.

“What about you?” smiled Athos through half closed eyes. “What do you miss?”

“Football, I s’pose,” said Porthos. “I liked quiz shows too. And the poker tournaments.”

“You’re such a competitive sod,” laughed Aramis. “He’s a beast if he doesn’t win at Monopoly,” he said in an aside to Athos.

“At least I wasn’t obsessed with Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica.” Porthos elbowed Aramis. “Geek.”

Athos was smiling, but his eyes were almost all the way closed by now and Aramis took charge, hustling him to the bathroom and then bed.

“He’s practically asleep already,” he said to Porthos as they cleared up for the night.

“It feels so fucking good to have him home.” Porthos let out this pent up sigh of relief.

Aramis smiled at him and brushed a hand across his back. “I love you.”

“Me too,” said Porthos with a grin.

Would there be a _me three_ to accompany this at some point, wondered Aramis. He hoped, very much, there would be. “Let’s go to bed,” he said, trying not to think about what might unwind tomorrow. Christ knows how many of them would come home from this mission intact, if at all.

They hadn’t used the nightlight since Athos had been missing, but tonight Aramis was glad of it. He not only needed to feel, but also see that all three of them were here and safe. With Porthos moulded against his back, he let his arm drape around Athos, bunching the cotton of his t-shirt between his fingers.

He’d been sharing a bed with the man for long enough now to know the difference between him sleeping and lying there fretting. “It was really bad, wasn’t it?” he asked softly.

Athos nodded, and in a reshuffle of bodies he ended up cocooned between them. “They kept me shut in the dark. They played back sounds of the creeps on a loop. It never fucking stopped.”

Porthos stroked a hand over his shoulder, rhythmically, compulsively. “You got through it,” he said.

“I thought about Treville,” said Athos. His eyes were closed. “And I thought about being here with you.”

“We thought about you all the time,” said Porthos.

The moment stretched out, the words nothing but everything, and when Porthos dipped his head slowly to kiss Athos on the mouth, Aramis watched fascinated. Running his hand upwards from hip to shoulder he leaned in to take his turn, the kiss evolving from a slip of tongues to something more intense.

Undressing was a long drawn out process, with Athos lying passive between them, limp from exhaustion in every way but one. He watched, eyes glazed from wine and arousal, as Porthos and Aramis kissed and when they turned their attention back to him, he gasped their names in turn and rubbed against them, skin pressing hot against theirs.

This too was nothing but everything. With both their hands on Athos’ cock, with their mouths sharing his, with his hands pulling at them, they came one after the other, and even when it was done Aramis couldn’t stop kissing them, turn and turn about and then in this endless threesome of mouths and lips and tongues that summed them up perfectly.

“I’m not certain this should have happened,” said Athos, when the kissing finally stopped. He was guarded, more unsure of himself that Aramis had ever seen him, but behind those blue eyes was a glimmer of hope.

“Let’s be honest, it had already happened in every way but this,” said Aramis matter-of-factly, reaching out for his baccy tin to take out a joint and then lighting up. “You know that.”

“Aramis and I have already talked about it,” said Porthos. “We love you. We want you. We want this to work.”

Aramis took a drag and passed it to Porthos. Breathing a drift of smoke into Athos’ mouth he kissed him, allowing all his feelings to be on show. “I love you. Porthos loves you.”

“This is a disaster in the making,” said Athos, though never once did he pull away from them.

“The world’s a disaster. This is far from it. This is right,” said Aramis. “Tell me you disagree.”

“You two are the only thing that stopped me from giving up,” said Athos, his words little more than a whisper. “I shouldn’t love you. Not so soon.”

“Treville wanted this,” said Aramis. It wasn’t said lightly. He knew what the captain had meant by those last words. Ninon knew too.

Porthos put the joint to Athos’ lips then Aramis’ and they smoked in silence until it was gone. 

“I do love you both,” said Athos. “I can’t help it.”


	19. Chapter 19

Immediately afterwards all three men crashed, arms clamped tight around each other with no dreams and no phobias able to push through and disturb them.

Waking up was a delight. Aramis buried himself in his boys, pulled them close to him and kissed them awake, overjoyed to see Athos’ warm smile, those eyes, full of love, staring up at him.

“Are you always so full on in the morning?” he drawled. “If so I may have to rethink this.”

“No rethinking allowed. Nor recanting neither,” said Porthos, joining in with the morning kisses that tasted of old wine and cigarettes. “You love us, remember?”

“I do,” said Athos, “and I’d like nothing more than to show you both how much, but there are things to be done.”

Aramis watched Athos get out of bed. “It’s still dark, love. Not even close to reveille.” He reached out to grab him, but Athos neatly evaded his hands and padded off to the bathroom. “There are much more interesting things we could be doing.”

“You two stay in bed,” said Athos. “I need to go to Bulford. The Signals regiment were based there. I didn’t know why we didn’t think of this before.”

“He’s guilting us,” shouted Porthos as they both scrambled out of bed after him. “We may need to rethink this ourselves.”

“Did you really expect us to let you go off on your own?” said Aramis, joining Athos in the shower.

“No.” Just for a second Athos’ face was transformed by a cheeky grin. It was a pretty sight. “Of course not, but it _is_ important we go there. They’ll have throat mics and all kinds of other comms equipment.”

“Room for one more,” said Porthos once he’d finished his lengthy morning piss.

There really wasn’t, but it was far from a problem. The crush of bodies wasn’t great for washing, but they let the soapy water do its work and, instead, fell into each other, kissing, touching, stroking until they were all three done and shaking from the come down.

“I want to spend all day in bed,” said Porthos later as they took a truck from the motor pool. “Why are we doing this again?”

Athos flashed him a glance and this time Aramis knew that his thoughts weren’t running as happy.

“Let’s just get it done.”

It was only a mile or two to Bulford camp. Kitted up with swords and torches, the other two followed as Porthos kicked open the door to the entrance lobby. “Lights are working,” he said after flicking a switch.

“You don’t say,” Aramis grinned at him and then put a finger to his lips. The sound of creeps was unmistakable and he reached out to lay a reassuring hand on Athos’ forearm. “Okay?”

“I’m good,” grunted Athos. “They’re in the basement. Unfortunately that’s probably where the stores are too.”

The lower corridor was packed full of feral creeps, snarling and snapping at each other, trapped by the force of bodies and their own lack of intelligence. With an urgency Aramis hadn’t seen in him before, Athos swung into them, scything a path and barging his way through. 

“Well we know where to come for our next recruitment drive,” he said, leaning back against a set of doors as Porthos wedged them shut with a mop handle.

“You can’t get everything done at breakneck speed,” said Aramis, trying to keep up with Athos as he raced off down the corridor. “There’s a reason they call it that.”

Athos slowed up. “I need to get Ninon out of there. I should have gone back to find her. I was-” He paused for a second, weighed down by troubles. “I was not in a good state.”

“And she’ll understand that, Athos,” said Aramis. “Please stop trying to take personal responsibility for every single thing in this world.”

“I will when it stops being my fault.”

“Crap. You’re putting the rest of us at risk with such skewed thinking,” said Aramis, dragging both men, bloody as they all were, into a hug. “We plan this out, calmly and sensibly. Rescuing Ninon is top priority. The rest I don’t give a shit about.” He closed his eyes and held on tight. “That’s an order.”

“Let’s get these mics and go,” said Porthos. “The stores are straight ahead of us.”

What they found on breaking open the double doors was a charnel house.

"What the fuck?" said Porthos, looking around him in horror at the stockpile of bodies which must have amounted to hundreds. Their flesh had long since rotted away, but the smell of death still lingered.

"The worst thing is not knowing why they died," said Aramis. A cursory inspection revealed no signs of ferocious behaviour or cannibalism. "I think they were survivors, hoping they'd find enough weapons in here to fight their way out." With solid bars on tiny windows there was no way out once they were in here and Aramis tried not to imagine how horrifying it must have been for them to find only electronic surveillance and comms gear.

Athos, meanwhile, had stepped over the corpses and was filling his bag with equipment. "Why on earth could it possibly matter why they met their end? They're dead. Worrying about it is pointless." He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that instead of yelling at him for being utterly disrespectful, Aramis spluttered with inappropriate laughter.

Porthos grinned at him and began to follow Athos’ lead and once Aramis had got over his fit of hysterics he joined in until all their rucksacks were stuffed to bursting.

“There’s other stuff here we’ll be able to set up for communications between bases,” said Porthos. “But for now it’s just the close range stuff, yeah?”

“Yep,” agreed Aramis. “Grab as much as you can and then we fight our way out of here and go back to Larkhill to plan out a strategy.” 

It was a shock to watch Athos physically wilt, his head hanging low. When he looked up his face was haunted. “Please,” he said. “We can’t waste any more time. She’ll be dead soon. She may already be dead. Please. I beg you.”

Without need of further prompt, Aramis and Porthos put down their kit bags and closed in on Athos, taking the rucksack from his hand and pulling him into a protective huddle.

Aramis had only ever heard him beg once before and that was to save Treville’s life: an impossible task. Ninon de Larroque was not going to die. Not under his command. “We get back to Larkhill; we muster the troops and we go,” he promised. Strategy could be devised on the way. “You draw us a quick plan of the base and we’re off.”

“Thank you,” said Athos and his eyes spoke even more clearly of his utter gratitude.

The three way kisses weren’t as difficult to manage as Aramis had imagined. They shared each other out, hard presses of mouth, tiny touches of tongue, just enough to give and gain strength.

“Ready?” said Athos, his hand poised ready to slide away the plank that was barring the door.

“Ready,” said the other two and with rucksacks on backs they fought their way out of yet another hellhole.

How many more would there be, Aramis wondered, after they had secured the Signals building.

Returning to the mess they dumped off the equipment with a couple of the engineers, ordering them to test it and fix whatever they could. Then after showering the gore off, ignoring Porthos' entreaties to go back to bed for half an hour, they reconvened in the canteen to load up on breakfast and make plans.

"So we have two serviceable trucks?" said Athos to which Aramis nodded. "And we can fit three squads into them at a push. Less with equipment."

"Yeah," sighed Porthos. "Not much of an army."

"We don't need one yet," said Athos. "But I admit it's not looking brilliant."

"We're getting there," said Aramis. "You've found a supply of fuel and vehicles. We have the antiserum and a means to disperse it at Aldermaston. We're so much further ahead than we were." He dropped an arm around each of the men, his men, and squeezed at tense muscles. "First things first, boys. Let's go bring Lieutenant de Larroque back home where she belongs."

"We'll take my top squad of F's," said Porthos. "They're coming on great, far more disciplined than any of the other soldiers here."

Athos looked dubious. "Can they be trusted to do their job? I don't want anyone disrupting things."

"Of course they can be trusted," said d'Artagnan from the doorway. "You're just as likely to screw up as they are."

Porthos pumped himself up, instantly on the defensive, but Athos huffed with laughter. "No truer word," he said. "You'll come with us as their corporal?"

"Of course," said d'Artagnan. "Where else would I be?" He looked edgy all of a sudden. “I’d better tell Constance. She might not take it too well.”

Now down to the three of them again, Aramis listened intently as Athos described the layout of the base, after which he and Porthos argued over tactics. They worked well together and before long had cobbled together the beginnings of a battle plan.

"Right," said Porthos. "I'll muster the troops and round up the equipment. We'll be ready by sixteen hundred."

"We should wait until first light," said Aramis. It was nothing more than a delaying tactic and a trifle shamefaced he shrugged and smiled. "I suppose covert ops are best carried out under cover of darkness. I just wanted one more night together before everything goes to hell again. Selfish I know."

"Not selfish at all," said Athos and he reached out to grasp hold of two hands. "But for now we keep fighting."

In just two hours time, the soldiers had been briefed, the comms equipment tested and they were armed to the hilt and ready to roll out.

"Be careful," said Constance, her brow furrowed with worry. "Stay alive and bring Ninon home safe." She kissed d'Artagnan firmly on the mouth. "Look after him, boys," she added, smiling at the F squad. "You know how irresponsible he can be."

"We do," replied Fred, very seriously. "We'll make sure he's okay."

With Athos and Aramis in the lead truck and Porthos driving the second with d'Artagnan riding shotgun, they set off east on their mission to retrieve Ninon from the clutches of the Guard. 

Aramis knew why Athos was so worried. He’d seen at first hand what these bastards were capable of, under direction of the saintly Richelieu, and that was to innocent bystanders. Ninon was a long way from that. Save her and then they could then think about saving the rest of the world. 

Bringing the truck to a halt at the side of the road, Athos alighted without a word and then proceeded to kick in the lock on a weather worn barrier, raising it to allow the vehicles entry and then lowering it once they were through.

“We tend to use Porthos for that kind of heavy work,” said Aramis as Athos climbed back into the truck, taking the newly vacated driver’s seat once again.

Athos glanced at him and raised an eyebrow as he navigated the truck down a bumpy gravel track. “Better the barrier than you,” he said wryly. “I needed to take my aggression out on something.”

“We’ll have plenty of grunts for you to beat up soon enough,” replied Aramis, wondering when he’d become so hardened to this level of violence. Deep down it still hurt, even after Treville. _Especially_ after Treville.

“This is close enough,” said Athos as he pulled the truck into a small clearing and once again exited the vehicle.

Cigarette in hand he gathered everyone around him, his roughly drawn schematics of the underground base spread out on a fallen tree trunk.

“We split into two units,” he continued. “D’artagnan, you, Fred and the rest of the F’s stay behind as backup. Wait here and we’ll make contact as and when we need you.”

“Disagree,” said Porthos. “Normally it would make sense, but there aren’t enough of us for those kind of tactics. We go in as one. Question is where.”

“There’s a vent shaft,” said Athos, without argument. “Instead of going up through the levels I went downwards to fool the guards when they were searching for me. The place is vast, divided up into different areas depending on strategic importance and security status. The staffing quarters are buried deep. Not lavish and so of little interest to a greedy bastard like Rochefort, but vital enough that they have their own ventilation system in case of further emergency. We go in there.” 

He switched off the torch then stubbed his cigarette out, and with his face camouflaged by shadow Aramis lost him for a moment and had to reach out in order to reassure himself that he was still there. Sometimes Athos felt all too much like a ghost.

“We’re with you,” he said. “Move out when ready.”

It had been a long time since Aramis done anything like this, probably not since training, and trying to remember how to travel through forested terrain without making a sound was difficult. Every snap of twigs hiked up his stress levels until cold sweat beaded on his brow. Helping a sick Porthos stay hidden inside an enemy infested Paris was easy in comparison to this.

“The vent shaft is fifty metres ahead of us,” said Athos as he hunkered down and halted the squad. “From now onwards use the mics for communication.”

“Right,” said Porthos taking over. “Lads,” he said addressing the F’s. “I know you haven’t had much training in this kind of technique, but we treat it just the same as a climbing wall, yeah. “We rope up and help each other down. Safety is paramount.”

“Speed is also of the essence,” added Athos, receiving a glare from Porthos.

“If one of us fucks up and falls then that’ll alert the Guard and the whole plan’s in the shitter,” the big man growled. “Am I right?”

“You’re right,” conceded Athos as he checked his throat mic once again for luck. “You’re in charge.”

“I knew you’d finally come to your senses, Colonel.” Porthos grinned at him, his teeth an arc of whiteness in the faint glimmer of moonlight. “Move out, boys. After me.”

Adrenaline rushing through him, Aramis cautiously made his way through the uneven scrub, making out the steps of the man in front and following in his path. The tussocks of grass were a nightmare in the dark and several times he had to fight to keep his balance.

“Thank god,” muttered Athos as he stood at the edge of the shaft and stared down into the abyss.

“What?” asked Aramis in a low voice as he moved up to stand next to him.

“I was worried that they might have discovered my escape route and secured it. If so it would have been hopeless trying to get in this way,” Athos replied over the comm system. “My backup plan was a full on assault of the main entrance.” He looked down into the darkness. “At least we stand a chance this way.”

“We do,” said Aramis, clapping him on the shoulder.

They both watched as Porthos kitted everyone up and checked safety lines.

“I’m first,” said Athos as he stepped forward, silencing Aramis with a frown. “I know the layout and I’m more experienced when it comes to covert ops. I defer to you when it comes to demolitions. This is mine.”

“He’s right,” said Porthos. “And he ain’t made of china.” He punched Athos affectionately but hard. “Are you, bro?”

Athos glowered and rubbed his sore bicep. “Not the best of times for a dead arm,” he said as he lowered himself into the abyss. “See you in hell.”

Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other. It was their own phrase that Athos had intuitively adopted and, without knowing it, had strengthened the bond between them ever more tightly.

“Down and safe,” came a murmur over the airwaves. “Send the packs to me first and then the next man.”

“That’ll be me,” said Aramis. “Then Durand and his squad. After that it’s the F’s.”

“I’ll go before them,” said d’Artagnan. “They may need my help to get down. It’s a big new world to them.”

Aramis shrugged off the insubordination, still fairly convinced that he was area manager rather than company commander. If anything it was a comfort, knowing, as he did, that they’d be far more successful working as a team rather than a standard military unit. Orders were necessary at times, but he loved having the rock solid support of his men, even if they were prone to contradiction all too often.

Climbing down into the black void was a nerve wracking experience and he wondered how Athos had managed it with his wide array of phobias. It was a testament to the man’s courage that he overcame these fears when needed.

Speak of the devil.

“Part of the filtration system is detached on the far side, immediately to your left,” came a disembodied patrician voice. “Feel for a gap with your feet and then climb through. Another ten feet down and you’re on solid ground.”

With no intention of unnecessarily alerting anyone to their presence, torches were out of bounds. The dark was so intense inside the shaft that sight was useless and as Aramis squirmed his way through the gap in the metalwork, he felt the prickle of panic and was utterly relieved the second his boots touched the floor. He looked around him to gather his wits and see where he had ended up.

The service tunnel was lit by the dull glow of emergency bulkhead lamps and he fought hard to get the gist of his surroundings, picturing that sketchy map in his head and juxtaposing those images with the reality of what was around him. Focusing on their location helped him push aside the nerves, but he was still left with the uncomfortable effects of adrenaline, heart thumping, guts sinking.

“Next man,” breathed Athos over the earpiece which seemed odd when they were standing side by side. He glanced at Aramis. “Are you all right?”

“Bit shaky.” Aramis took the canteen that Athos handed to him and gulped down a mouthful of water. “Could do with some of your pills right now.”

Making the most of the solitude, Athos touched his lips to Aramis for the briefest of moments. “Thank you for doing this.” 

The words were personal, whispered directly into his ear, and uplifted by them, Aramis pressed their foreheads together. “Anything for you and Ninon,” he said. “You know that. But promise me there’ll be none of your solo heroics,” he said. “All for one, remember.”

With Durand approaching the filtration unit, their intimate time together was now over and Athos directed the soldier down into the tunnel, swiftly followed by the rest of his squad. After that it was d’Artagnan, as gung ho as ever, reaching the bottom before Athos had even opened his mouth to give directions.

“He could be your son,” murmured Aramis with a grin.

Athos glared at him. “How old do you think I am?”

Aramis grinned again.

Unaware of the sotto voce conversation going on beside him, d’Artagnan took over comms. “Right, Fred, let’s be having you,” he said. “Take note of what I say and you can’t go wrong.”

After Fred was safely down and full of himself for it, then came the remainder of the F squad in a steady stream. Aramis felt a little ashamed knowing the rest only by their numbers, but that didn’t stop him being relieved to see each one of them safely negotiate the descent.

All was going well until there was a sudden muffled cry and then the hideous sound of a body thumping its way down the aluminium walls of the shaft.

“Frank, hang on I’m coming to get you,” said d’Artagnan.

“I’m fine,” responded the rather slow voice. “I’m winded, but I’m not hurt.”

“Hold on a sec, I’m coming down,” said Porthos.

“Fuck,” muttered Athos and to his left Aramis heard the soft slither of a pistol as it left the holster.

Instinctively he reached for his own weapon. “Trouble?”

“Not yet,” said Athos. “However someone here must have heard that commotion. I know we’re lower down in the network of tunnels, but still.”

Aramis knew that his fears were well founded.

“We may be too late,” said Athos and turned his attention to the others. “Hurry up, damn you.”

“Trying,” came Porthos’ voice. “Frankie here’s got himself all tied up in knots. I’m going to have to have to cut him loose. Watch out below.”

“I’ll help him down,” said d’Artagnan.

It was a risky manoeuvre to carry out in the near darkness and as Frank descended, d’Artagnan lost his footing and the sound of pain was unmistakeable.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis knelt beside the jumble of bodies as Frank, full of apology, clambered unsteadily off his squad leader’s prone body.

“I’m good,” muttered the young man as he turned over, but then he sucked in a breath of annoyance. “Except that I’ve sprained my bloody ankle.”

“You’ll have to hobble,” growled Porthos from above. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is. We need to find Ninon ASAP.” There was a strangled sound and then a moment of silence which was followed by a loud expletive. “Shit.”

“What now?” asked Aramis in frustration as he helped d’Artagnan to his feet and away from the bottom of the shaft.

“I’m only bloody stuck,” grunted Porthos.

There was the sound of banging and shoving with the occasional booming echo as his boots kicked out against the metal sheeting.

“I’ll climb up to help you,” suggested Aramis. “Athos, give me a leg up.” He waited. “Athos?”

“I’m recceing the place,” came the low hiss in his earpiece. “Get Durand to help. The filtration unit will come apart more if necessary.”

“Athos, get back here now,” hissed Aramis. “That’s a direct order. Do you hear me?”

The radio silence spoke all too clearly of his intentions and Aramis cursed him over and over again. So much for togetherness.

“Porthos, I’m coming up and I’m passing you a utility knife,” he said as Durand lifted him into the void. “Feel around for my hand.”

“You need to find Athos,” muttered Porthos as he wriggled his arm downwards in the tight space, just enough to reach. “Stop him from getting caught red handed trying to bust the lieutenant out.”

“First, I help you out of this tight squeeze,” said Aramis, speaking through clenched teeth, knife in his mouth as he switched on his torch and directed the small beam onto the broken filtration unit.

“Not sure how Athos managed to get through this when he was escaping,” said Porthos.

“I don’t give a damn,” said Aramis who was so furious by now that he could punch the man, regardless of how much he cared.

“It’s coming loose,” said Porthos. “Shit. Move, Aramis.”

“Durand, shift,” said Aramis, still balanced on the big commando’s shoulders. 

Getting out of the way in the nick of time, the two men came close to toppling over and the whole farce then took on a nightmarish turn when Porthos fell from the shaft with a cry of pain.

Aramis was by his side in an instant. “You okay?”

“Cut myself on the fucking housing,” snarled Porthos, cradling his arm.

The gash was long and ragged, blood welling and then spilling in a pool onto the grey concrete flooring. 

“I need to see to this,” said Aramis, taking his medical kit out of one of the packs. He passed de Blois a roll of bandages. “While I’m doing this you wrap d’Artagnan’s ankle.”

“And in the meantime Athos gets himself killed,” muttered Porthos.

“His own choice,” replied Aramis trying to disguise a vortex of emotions and remain cool as he cleaned the wound and dressed it. “He’s not my problem.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Porthos, grimacing from the pain as Aramis taped the skin tightly.

“No,” said Aramis. “I don’t.” He breathed in deeply. “He’s a massive problem.”

“Yeah, but he’s our massive problem so let’s get a fucking move on and go rescue him and Ninon,” said Porthos. “How difficult can it be? A bunch of F’s and some walking wounded taking on a full battalion of the Guard. Simple. Let's hop to it, boys.”

“I suppose you think that’s funny,” said d’Artagnan as he hung onto Fred, using him as a crutch.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter contains references to torture and violence against women of a sexual nature.** The subject matter is harsh and though the references are not too graphic, I would hate it if anyone was triggered by it.
> 
> Some location shots can be found [HERE](http://evilmanicfic.tumblr.com/post/143642555174). The photos are all tagged.

Studying the map, between them they pieced together information and worked out from Athos’ earlier words the approximate location of where Ninon was being held. The problem was that the bunker was a warren of tunnels, bigger brightly lit ones for the political big wigs who would have been housed here in times of crisis and smaller ones for the staff. 

“We’ll stick to the maintenance shafts and lifts as much as possible,” said Porthos. “Weapons at the ready and follow me.” He looked around at his troops. “None of you get jittery, you hear me. Itchy trigger fingers make for a dead Porthos and I don’t like that idea.”

“Yes, sir,” piped up Fred, taking the comment as seriously as always.

It was clear, once they’d passed the first dead body, throat slit and hidden in one of the recesses in the wall, that they were following in Athos’ footsteps. The good news was that no alarm siren had been sounded.

“There aren’t many soldiers around,” said Porthos, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“They’ll all be in the guardroom playing X-Box,” said Aramis, keeping his tone light, although the lack of enemy presence was something that he too had noted since they’d been on the move. He was beginning to think that it would be a miracle if they found Ninon imprisoned here. His mind wandered, working out ways to prevent Athos from going on a one man rescue mission to Paris to save his best friend from the horrors of New Bas and he forced himself back to the present, sharpening his senses and wishing there was something to concentrate on, other than this oppressive silence.

The need to focus arrived sooner than he expected and wasn’t at all welcome when it came. Shots were being exchanged, the sound ricocheting through the tunnels and giving up all pretence of covert, they charged towards the sound of fighting. 

With d’Artagnan struggling to walk and Porthos hindered by his arm, Aramis found himself on point, leading his men into the affray. There were two bodies on the ground, bleeding profusely from gunshot wounds, but neither were Athos. He was being pinned to the floor by two enemy soldiers, kicking out and struggling to free himself.

Aramis aimed his gun. “Release him or you both die.”

“Do as he says,” snarled Porthos.

The moment dragged endlessly, a standoff between the two factions, all semblance of reality lost inside this bizarre underground complex. They could be playing a video game for the sense it made.

“Now,” snapped Aramis.

One of the soldiers, big and brutal looking, smiled an ugly grin then brought the butt of his pistol crashing down hard into the back of Athos’ skull.

The man went limp, the fight going out of him and Aramis became fueled by rage. Desperate to save Athos, mourning Treville all over again, he discharged his weapon and the bullet connected at close range turning that loathsome smile into nothing but blood and bone. At the same time Porthos fired and the second guard was flung backwards, clutching at his shoulder.

As other soldiers approached from the tunnels the area turned into a war zone, sound of gunfire deafening inside the subterranean chamber. This small unforgiving world was a mist of red and Aramis fired off clip after clip, taking down the enemy forces down and hearing the cries of his own men as they were hit. oblivious to everything, in the midst of the carnage lay Athos, still and unresponsive.

“S’okay,” said Porthos in a low voice, peeling back Aramis’ fingers and removing the gun from his hand. “It’s over for now.”

“Casualties?”

“F7 and 10 are dead. F1’s wounded, along with Henry and Gasquet, but none of them are bad. De Blois got winged, but he’s okay. He’s gone off with Durand and Hopalong to check for any more Guard.”

“And Athos?”

“I’m fine,” came that upper class drawl. “Seeing as I had no weapon at hand it seemed sensible to remain where I was.”

“Plus you look like shit and you’ve just puked up everywhere,” said Porthos. “Which means you’ve probably got a minor concussion.”

“I’ve had worse.”

Aramis turned slowly to see Athos leaning against the wall, white as a sheet and clutching the back of his head. Right at this minute he didn’t know whether he wanted to hug him or hit him. In the end he chose to ignore him until his emotions were less raw. Treville's constant aura of frustration around Athos was understandable. Loving the man didn’t make him any easier to deal with.

“Alain, you and F’s take the wounded to the rooms back there then clear the bodies and find somewhere to store them,” instructed Aramis, his ears still ringing with tinnitus. “When de Blois gets back he can help me patch up their injuries.”

“Ninon comes first,” said Athos curtly and he marched off down the corridor without waiting for instruction. “Bring that one with us,” he added halting in his tracks. Looking back at Porthos and Aramis he pointed to the enemy soldier with the bleeding shoulder. “We may need information.”

“What do we do?” Porthos glanced at Aramis.

“We do as he says,” stated Aramis. “For now.”

With the enemy soldier being frog marched unwillingly between them, they followed Athos through the maze of tunnels.

Aramis was shattered, dazed by the events of the night, his mind firmly back in the past as he recalled that clipped patrician voice and the coldness of those blue green eyes as the muzzle of a pistol was pressed to Porthos’ head. Alongside this came the grainy images of a hooded man being hauled into prison and locked away for his crimes against humanity.

Athos today was the same loose cannon he had been when they’d first met. Driven, focused on only one thing, he blotted everything else out until his goal had been achieved. Was it saving Ninon or saving the world, Aramis wondered. Whichever the case, it would be at the expense of those around him.

“Don’t,” said Porthos in a low voice, reading his mind. “You know how he is.”

“Sometimes I’m not even sure _who_ he is,” replied Aramis, but as always, in these moments of crisis, Treville's voice emanated from deep within his subconscious, begging him to help Athos. 

_Please don't let him disappear again. You have to look after him for me._

“Yeah you are.” Porthos glanced sideways. “You know him and you love him same as I do. Same as we love each other. You’re hating on yourself, just as much as you’re hating on him and it’s pointless and negative. People die in war. It’s what happens. We’re here to rescue Ninon, so let’s do it, yeah? We can talk this out afterwards if that's what you need.”

“Fucking queerboys.”

Aramis heard the sound of a big fist smashing into flesh and their wounded prisoner fell silent. This was war and however much he hated it the only way to stop it was to win. He only hoped the costs wouldn’t be too high.

Ahead of them, Athos had stopped in front of a row of steel doors. “This is where they were holding us,” he said, walking towards them and unhooking a key chain from the belt of the barely conscious Guardsman. “I can’t see any reason why they’d have moved her.” The _unless_ hung in the air, painful and silent.

“A prison block,” said Porthos with a shrug. “I s'pose every top secret nuclear bunker has its drunks that need locking up for a night in the tank.”

Aramis knew that he was trying to be light-hearted to ease the tension, but it was doing little to lift the pall and as Athos unlocked each of the doors in turn that weight increased palpably.

It was evident from his expression when he had found her, but Aramis wasn’t certain whether she was dead or alive.

Anger and doubt a thing of the past he stepped forward, leaving Athos to be the one to enter on his own, yet determined to show support for the two of them. The cell was pitch dark and Aramis was relieved at first to hear quiet words coming from inside, but then he realised that the ice cool Ninon was crying and he was overcome by a wave of anguish, wondering what violence they might have inflicted on her that had brought her to this.

It was over an hour before Athos emerged, a shell of himself, more wrecked than Aramis had ever seen him, even after the loss of Treville.

“She’s been in the dark the whole time she was held here, except when they were torturing her.” Those eyes grew steelier than ever. “She needs low level light, clothes, food.” He looked at Aramis. “She needs medical attention.”

“Is she?” Porthos tapped his finger to his temple. “You know.”

They all knew what could happen during long periods of interrogation.

Athos shook his head. “She’s not broken,” he said and his voice was full of pride. “No one will ever break her. She’s damaged, but she’ll heal.”

“We need to get her out of that cell,” insisted Aramis. “The medical wing is nearby. I’ll get it set up to suit her needs and fetch a trolley.”

“Just a blanket,” said Athos and Aramis nodded. 

Making sure the lighting was low and the ward was warm, Aramis ordered Porthos to rustle up some food and then returned to the prison block, passing Athos a soft fleece from the laundry room.

The Ninon de Larroque he carried out of the cell was not someone Aramis could even recognise. Painfully thin, her naked body caked with dirt and blood, she clung to Athos, screwing her eyes up against the light.

“Thank you,” she croaked as Athos placed her carefully in the bed. “All I need now is a stiff brandy and I’ll be fine.”

“What you need is some food and a bath,” said Athos with a smile, teasing her gently for the sake of normality. “But first Aramis here is going to examine you.”

Ninon frowned, her eyes opening just enough to glare at the two men. “I suppose it’s necessary,” she said. “Rochefort's methods of interrogation were personal and intrusive. The little shit took an awful lot of pleasure in dreaming up new ways to hurt me.”

Aramis carried out the medical examination, tending to her with the utmost care and the only sign of her distress was the way she held tightly to Athos’ hand throughout the process. He was enraged and disgusted that she had been treated so inhumanely by Rochefort, but now was not the time to let his anger get the better of him. Ninon needed him to be calm and in control of the situation.

“Did they rape you?” he asked. There were internal injuries that could indicate this had happened.

She shook her head. “Thankfully not with any of their dirty little parts,” she said. “Though Rochefort enjoyed using implements. He would have made a good inquisitor.”

“There’s no permanent damage,” said Aramis once he had had checked her out thoroughly. “The internal injuries will heal in time. The cuts may leave you with scars.”

“I’m scarred enough that a few more won’t make a difference,” she said matter-of-factly. “May I have that bath now?”

“Did they use any psyche methods on you?” asked Athos.

“No,” said Ninon. “Strangely enough they seemed to be of the opinion that a woman would break more easily from pain. If they’d shown me a tarantula I’d have run screaming and told them everything.”

“Liar,” laughed Athos. “You’d never have survived a year in the jungle if that were the case.”

She laughed with him for a moment, an echo of her old self, and then she looked at Aramis. “I have some important information for you, sir. I may not have told Rochefort anything, but the idiot let slip something very useful. He was convinced that we were part of an organisation called English Defence Force, something along those lines. Apparently the dregs of the army decamped eastwards to Bury St Edmunds when all was lost. Imagine telling me that. I assume the little runt was arrogant enough to think I’d never get free.”

“I call him something that sounds very similar to that,” said Athos with a slight quirk of the lips.

“So there’s another lot trying to fight back against the Richelieu and the ONA,” mused Aramis. “We need to get in contact with them soonest. They have experienced troops, by the sound of things, and we have the antidote to HC33.” Taking off the surgical gloves and chucking them in the bin, he scraped his fingers back through his hair. “Jesus Christ! We might actually stand a chance of taking back France if we combine forces.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” warned Athos.

“I remember us having a conversation very similar to this a long time ago,” said Aramis. “We don’t have time for scouting parties and diplomatic envoys. We need to get in contact with these people immediately.” He fixed his gaze on Athos, confused as always by this man who was desperate to run headlong into danger yet scared to death of hope. “What would Treville do with this information?”

Athos looked away, staring at a fixed point on the far wall of the ward.

“We’ll ask Porthos,” said Ninon. “I always find he’s the most reasonable member of your triumvirate.”

“I see loyalty amongst friends is a thing of the past,” said Athos, his composure recovered.

“We’re all friends,” said Ninon earnestly. “Good ones at that. Now leave me alone to have my bath and get dressed. You can join me later for something to eat.”

Aramis wished he’d had the foresight to bring Constance with them. Ninon’s bravado was a shield, and he could understand her need for privacy at a time like this, especially after what had happened to her at the hands of those monsters, but to leave her alone seemed wrong.

“Constance has turned out to be an excellent psychologist,” he said. “If you need to talk to someone when we get back?”

“You chose her because she’s female, I suppose,” said Ninon.

Aramis nodded, unsure whether this was right or wrong.

“I’ve learned over the years that women can be equally as efficient at torture as men,” Ninon replied, wrapping the blanket around herself and edging gingerly off the bed, assisted by Athos. “Often more so in fact. We’re all humans and we’re all able to inflict pain on others. The key to being a good person is knowing when to show restraint.”

Those words came back to haunt Aramis just a few hours later when Porthos and d’Artagnan returned, having searched the base thoroughly and unearthed no evidence of any enemy soldiers hiding in the underground levels, mustering for an attack.

“This ain’t right,” growled Porthos, shaking his head. “There was what, a dozen of them at most here? That’s not what Athos described to us when he got back.”

“Maybe he got his numbers wrong,” said d’Artagnan.

Aramis shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“As a matter of fact I can count quite accurately, d’Artagnan,” said Athos who had appeared from nowhere, as was his way, and was currently leaning on the wall behind them. “Mathematics is another of my skills, along with potion making and mass murder.”

“Athos!” warned Porthos. “No need to be sarky. We’re only trying to figure this shit out.”

“Maybe they escaped when they heard us coming?” said d’Artagnan, eliciting a second withering look from Athos.

“Really?” he said. “Our motley band of all sorts managed to rout an entire company of Guard? I think not.”

“So what _do_ you think?” asked Aramis.

“Rochefort's not here,” stated Athos. “And we need to know where he is, so I suggest we ask the chap in the cells.”

“Ask?”

Athos tipped his head in an affirmative. “Ask nicely at first and then move onto other more inventive methods of questioning if he’s not feeling too chatty.”

“Sounds fair,” said Porthos. “Let’s have a friendly word with the little bastard.”

“If you don’t mind I’d like to see how my lads are holding up,” said d’Artagnan, referring to his squad of F’s.

Aramis dismissed him with a swift nod. Interrogation was a skilled art, not something that was easy to get one’s head around. He and Porthos had become masters of it during their days with the Musketeers, able with ease to sweet talk a subject into giving up his secrets, or rile him into confessing -- whichever was more appropriate at the time.

The prisoner's cell was clean, brightly lit, and sterile. “Take him next door,” said Athos.

Aramis could understand the reasoning behind this. The room in which they had been holding Ninon was quite the opposite, an unsanitary mess with a slop bucket overflowing in one corner and broken glass on the floor from where the lights had been smashed out. The scent of blood combining with excrement was enough to make anyone gag. It was not a pleasant place.

“Agreed,” he said. “But leave this to Porthos and me. We know what we’re doing.”

Furniture was carried into the cell: a table, chairs, a desk lamp from one of the offices. Enough to give it the formal feel of a police station. Finally Porthos brought in the prisoner, pushing him down and cuffing him in place.

“Answer our questions and we’ll send you home to your mob,” he said pleasantly as he sat opposite him. “Simple as that. It’s a no brainer, if you ask me.”

“Traitor.” The prisoner spat out a gobbet of phlegm which landed neatly on the back of Porthos’ splayed hand.

He studied it for a while and then wiped it clean using the man’s military jacket as a handkerchief, pushing his knuckles into the shoulder wound as he did so and eliciting a grunt of pain. “That looks nasty,” he said. “We have two docs and a medic with us and we’ll even fix you up before we let you go. All you have to do is tell us where that weasel Rochefort has sloped off to.”

“Traitor,” repeated the Guard. “Your disloyalty to France is legendary.”

“I reckon you’re the one lacking in loyalty,” said Porthos. “Me and my mates here want nothing more than to free everyone over there from Richelieu and his bunch of cronies. Now where’s Rochefort?”

“How can you say that when you’re bedfellows with that fucker over there?” said the prisoner casting his eyes in the direction of Athos who was nonchalantly lounging against the wall with his arms folded. “You know he’s the one who caused this. His picture is plastered everywhere back home.”

“A wanted man. How exciting.” Athos yawned. “By the way, I have a syringe in my pocket which has the power to turn you into a babbling idiot,” he said. “So I suggest you answer my friend’s question pretty damn quickly.”

Aramis recognised this version of Athos. Fiercely protective of Ninon, of all his friends, desperate also to right his wrongs, he was at the same time petrified, fighting his fears and dreading the onset of a PTSD flashback. His armour was in place, but Aramis could see through it to the frightened man beneath. In this state of flux he was as lethal as the disease he’d created.

“Do what you want to me,” said the prisoner. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“How many bodies of the living have you burned?” asked Aramis. “That must have been an impossible task. It’s bad enough cremating the dead but to incinerate someone still alive.”

“They had no life,” said the prisoner. “They were nothing, worse than zombies. I hated them.”

“And yet you’re willing to become one of those creatures in order to protect Rochefort,” drawled Athos, patting his breast pocket. “I can’t imagine why a man like that would instill such loyalty.” Withdrawing a pouch from his jacket, he took out a vial and a syringe. “Tell us where he is.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” said the prisoner. “No one in their right mind would do that.”

“Right mind?” Athos smirked. “Probably not.” He approached the soldier, syringe loaded ready. “But look at who you’re dealing with.”

“Athos,” snapped Aramis. “Stand down.” 

A drop of clear fluid beaded at the tip of the needle and then spilled onto the floor. Aramis had no idea what was in that syringe. It might be the antiserum, but it could just as easily be the live pathogen. He could end this if needs be. He was the one with the gun.

Athos stared at Aramis and then took another step forward. 

There was the sound of a sudden gush of liquid as the prisoner pissed himself copiously, adding to the already unpleasant smell in the room. Broken, he looked to Porthos for help. “Stop him. Please.”

Porthos shuffled his chair away from the pool of urine and shrugged. “As it happens he’s pretty unstoppable. Short of shooting him, which neither of us are going to do seeing as we’re all _queerboys_ together, it seems like your luck’s run out, mate.”

Athos was close enough now to administer the injection. The prisoner struggled as his jacket was ripped open and the tip of the needle grazed his skin.

“I’ll tell you what you want to know.” A burst of hysterical laughter followed these words, the sound grating as it echoed around the cell. “But you’re too fucking late. Aldermaston’s rubble and Rochefort’s already moved on to your base in Wiltshire. We’ve been watching you cunts for a while,” he taunted. “Your friends will be long dead by now.”


	21. Chapter 21

For the second time in his life Aramis was treated to the crunching sound of vertebrae as a neck was snapped in front of him.

“Couldn’t have him running back to Rochefort,” said Porthos with a shrug as the dead soldier slid over to one side, his head hanging at a bizarre angle. “And I didn’t think we’d want to keep him as a pet.”

Aramis remained silent for a while, coming to terms with this summary execution of their prisoner. “Muster everyone and move out,” he said finally. “We need to get back to base.”

“I hope we’ve got enough fuel,” interjected Porthos. “If he was telling the truth then I don’t reckon they’ll have any vehicles lying around here for us to requisition.”

“What about that depot you mentioned?” Aramis asked Athos.

“Unless it’s absolutely necessary then I’d advise we forget it for now,” said Athos. “We don’t have time for detours.” He depressed the plunger of the syringe--the contents spilling out onto the floor--and disposed of the needle into the slop bucket. He then studied Aramis, his eyes having returned to that soft shade of turquoise. “It’s your decision whether or not to tell everyone what we’ve learned, bearing in mind that it may not even be true.”

Aramis frowned and scraped a hand through his hair. Much like Athos, D’Artagnan hadn’t the discipline that came from having a career in the military. His reaction to this news would be volatile, but at least if he was forewarned it would give him a chance to bring those emotions into check. On the other hand it would cause him hours of extra worry about Constance.

“We tell them the possible situation and then we get underway,” he said. “We can plan a strategy as we go.”

“Yes, sir,” said Athos and there was no hint of sarcasm to his words, simply respect for his CO.

“Right you are,” said Porthos and he looked down at the corpse. “What do we do with him?”

“Leave him where he is,” said Aramis dispassionately. The man was dead. No point in wasting time on him. 

If Athos had been the one to dispatch the soldier in such a cursory fashion would he have found it harder to deal with? This was a question that haunted him on the way back to the communal living area. Porthos was his rock, their love for each other the one solid thing that Aramis could depend on. They were each other's other half and had been for years, so how did Athos fit into this partnership? He was a constant thorn in Aramis’ side, but in some strange way because of it, had become the prickle of his conscience. He needed Athos as much as he needed Porthos. It was time to stop questioning this and call a halt to the merry-go-round of hurting one another, as he had once called it. It was an apt description.

“Ready?” asked Porthos, his fingers clasped around the aluminium door handle.

“Ready,” replied Aramis with a curt nod.

The recreation room was full to capacity and all eyes were on Aramis as he stood before his men.

“Firstly, I’d like to congratulate you all on a successful mission,” he said. “Lieutenant de Larroque is safe and therefore we have achieved what we came here to do. I also want to thank Sergeant de Blois for doing such a good job of patching you up. I regret the loss of Privates Flynn and Fox and if it were at all possible I’d have their bodies brought back to base in order to honour them with a military funeral, but in this instance it’s not.” He looked around at the remainder of the F squad. “However I assure you that their service will be recognised.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Fred.

Now for the hard part. Aramis composed himself and continued to speak.

“We’ve received information that the reason this base was only manned by a skeleton crew is because the rest of Rochefort’s troops are carrying out an attack on our headquarters.”

D’Artagnan rose to his feet. “Constance,” was the single word that left his lips.

“We’ll be returning to Larkhill immediately, “ Aramis assured him. “The information may not be accurate, but we must be prepared in case it is. All weapons to be readied for a swift assault if necessary.”

“The outer gates of this complex are surrounded by creeps,” added Athos. “We’ll either need to shoot our way out of here or return the way we came which will be difficult for the wounded.”

“How many of the buggers?” asked Porthos.

“Eighty, maybe up to a hundred,” said Athos. “It’s hard to tell on the CCTV.”

“And how far is it from the gates back to the trucks?”

“Half a mile at the most,” said Athos. “If we keep to the edge of the complex we can’t go far wrong.”

“Then we do that,” said Aramis. “Victual up and prepare to move out. Assault rifles at the ready.”

With no small amount of pride he watched the way the men responded to his words, all thought of injuries set aside for now as they carried out their tasks.

“I know how much you hated the idea of the CO’s job,” said Porthos afterwards when the troops had scurried off in various directions and Athos had gone to help Ninon prepare for the journey. “But you’re a natural.”

“It’s hard work,” admitted Aramis, resting his bum on the edge of a table. “It helps that I’m ridiculously proud of everyone, even if we haven’t actually achieved anything of substance so far.”

“We’ve achieved a ton of stuff,” said Porthos, resting his arms across Aramis’ shoulders. “We’re a bloody good military unit that keeps on fighting despite whatever gets thrown at us. We’re also strong enough to get through the next lot of shit, and the next, and the next.”

“I couldn’t do it without you,” said Aramis, getting slowly to his feet and taking advantage of the deserted room, wrapping his arms around Porthos’ big frame and inclining his head for a much needed kiss.

“And Athos?” asked Porthos once they had separated, albeit unwillingly.

“And Athos,” Aramis confirmed. “He’s a trickier sod than you, but we’re getting there.”

“He's not as tough as he wants you to think,” said Porthos. “Remember that when he’s being a prick next time.”

Aramis looked at his watch. “Which’ll be in about ten minutes,” he said with a grin.

“Probably, unless we bump into him sooner,” chuckled Porthos. “Enough of this lovey dovey nonsense. We need to get the gear ready so we can find out what the fuck’s going on back at home.”

With everything prepared and the troops mustered on the ground floor level of the complex, Aramis mentally ticked off items to ensure that they hadn’t missed anything vital. Ninon was present, fragile and gaunt, her poor state of health emphasised by the overly large combat gear she was wearing.

“Will you be able to walk to the trucks?” asked Aramis as he pulled up a chair and sat down to talk to her.

Never one to mince words, Ninon shook her head. “Unlikely,” she said. “But Athos will make sure I get there."

“Where is he?” asked Aramis, looking around the room.

“Punching walls or slitting throats, I expect,” she said with a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “He needed a moment alone.”

What Aramis had come to learn over these past few years was that what Athos thought he needed and what he actually needed were two entirely separate things.

Porthos found him first. Pacing the fencing and smoking furiously, he was taunting the creeps outside by running the tip of his knife along the links of wire. Aramis watched as the big man took the cigarette from his fingers, sheathed the blade and then pulled him back from the edge, both literally and emotionally, leading him away from the ranks of _diseased_ and over to the solitude of a deserted garage.

Keeping his distance Aramis followed, listening in to the low level conversation.

“Damn Rochefort for what he did to Ninon.” Athos was pacing once more, reaching for his cigarettes until Porthos stilled him in all ways, pulling him into his arms. “He took pleasure in torturing her, Porthos. He’s insane and I’m going to kill him. I’m going to cut off his balls then feed them to him one by one.”

“And I sure as hell won’t be stopping you,” said Porthos in that familiar rumble. “But let’s make certain everyone’s safe back at base first, yeah? I’ve got some grenade launchers in the truck and I’ve been dying to try ‘em out for ages. After that I’ll be happy to sic you on Rochefort.”

Athos let out a shuddery sigh of relief and Aramis was pleased that Porthos had been the one to find him. Somehow he always knew the right thing to say.

“Everything all right?” he asked as he emerged from the shadows.

“We’re fine, fit and good to go,” said Porthos, drawing back an arm to include Aramis in the huddle and kissing them both in turn. “Mine,” he added, his voice a comforting rumble.

\---

The further the disease progressed, the more revolting the creeps became, the demented nothing but raggedy foul smelling husks, milling about mindlessly and waiting to be set upon by their feral counterparts who were growing ever more violent as time passed.

“We _will_ do something to help,” said Aramis, touching the place where his crucifix had once rested and sending the message up into the aether. Unfortunately prayers would be of no use to this lot.

It was a controlled massacre, safely carried out from inside the shelter of the wire fencing, troops positioned on the flat roof of the complex. Bullets clattered, bodies were torn apart and as soon as it was safe they opened the gates and moved through, Aramis on point, Athos carrying Ninon, the two of them surrounded protectively by the rest of the troops, with Porthos and d’Artagnan bringing up the rear and finishing off the creeps that remained alive.

“I can still remember what it was like being one of them,” said Fred as they made their way back to the trucks, guns at the ready in case the noise had attracted any more unwelcome visitors.

“So can I, Freddy,” said Porthos who had now caught back up to the group. “I don’t think that feeling ever goes away.”

“I didn’t know you were ill too, sir,” said Fred excitedly.

“He’s the reason you’re better,” said de Blois. 

“Sort of I s’pose,” said Porthos.

No one mentioned Athos. Everyone had learned by now HC33 was his least favourite topic of conversation.

“Why did you bring the antiserum?” asked Aramis quietly as they converged on the vehicles.

Athos stared at him, head cocked to one side.

“I thought they may have used the virus on Ninon,” he said. “Playing God is the most extreme form of torture there is,” he said as he helped the injured woman up into the truck. “I should know.” He paused. “Would you have shot me to stop me from infecting the prisoner? You were considering it.”

“No,” said Aramis. “I understand you now.”

“I wish I could say the same.” Athos’ smile was jaded. “I can’t even remember the real me,” he confessed as he passed the keys to Aramis. “You drive. I’ll look after Ninon."

For the first hour of the journey they talked over the radio, discussing possible battle plans under different scenarios, but as time progressed, the level of concern ratcheted up and they fell silent.

“Shit,” said Athos, leaning forward and peering into the distance.

The column of dark smoke rising up into the bluest of blue skies was a horrifying sight and the further they drove, the thicker it became.

“Fuck no,” came d’Artagnan’s panicked voice over the radio. “If anything's happened to Constance I’m going to slaughter them.”

“Snap out of it and concentrate.”

In the truck behind them Porthos was doing his best to center d’Artagnan, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

“Stay focused, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, supporting him over the airwaves. “We have no idea what’s happening yet. Maintain radio silence for now.”

“It’s coming from Porton rather than Larkhill,” said Ninon. 

Aramis was in a quandary over what to do for the best. “Do we go there or head straight to Larkhill?” he asked.

“Porton first,” said Ninon. “We know there’s been an attack and Rochefort and his men may still be there. If not we reassess the situation when we get there.”

“Makes sense,” said Athos. “Do you agree, sir?”

Aramis rubbed at his aching temples. “I do.” Without the benefit of prescience or hindsight, it was the only call to make. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glimmer of a superior smile flicker across Ninon’s face. Her arrogance could often be a matter of irritation as far as he was concerned, but right now he was glad to see a return of that spirit.

They turned up the lane, past the deserted PHL building, to discover that the guard’s hut was now a bombed out shell, the barrier a thing of the past. There were also a series of thick tracks in the mud at the side of the road.

“APC’s,” said Porthos over the radio. “And a lot of them too.”

Rochefort’s mob had armoured personnel carriers whilst they were stuck with two broken down trucks and a hippy bus. Aramis couldn’t help but fear the worst.

There was no sign of an enemy presence, but the base was obliterated: barracks, main building, all the huts and quartering units demolished into rubble. 

“Oh god no,” cried d’Artagnan as he took in what had once been his and Constance's home.

“It doesn’t mean she was in there,” Aramis reassured him. “Don’t think the worst yet.”

This, however, wasn’t the source of the smoke. With everyone back in the trucks they drove around the back of the base and followed the lane up past the solar farm and under the bridge.

At first Aramis heaved out a sigh of relief because his people were here, trying to put out the fires and stop the inevitable destruction of the research facility, but then reality hit him hard. Everything they had worked towards was gone.

“Constance,” yelled d’Artagnan, jumping out of the second truck whilst it was still moving. He limped over to her, taking her into his arms and plastering her with kisses.

“They were all in there,” she gasped. “The D’s and the F’s. They’re all dead. I thought you must be dead too. It was only reason I could think of for them attacking us.”

“They’re all gone?” asked Fred, the shock of this information registering slowly with him. “All of them?”

“I’m sorry, Fred,” sobbed Constance.

“Not your fault, Miss,” said Fred, taking a deep breath and for the first time ever, in this new incarnation at least, he sounded defeated. 

Aramis watched as he and the remaining F's comforted each other, grieving for their friends. The loss was incalculable on every level.

“What about Larkhill?” he asked, unable to disguise the anxiety in his voice.

“It’s safe. I was over there when this happened,” said Constance. “They can’t have known we’d marched out to a new HQ.” 

“Shoddy intel,” said a cool voice. “A disgrace to the profession.”

Constance took in the welcome sight of Ninon and scrubbed away tears of relief. “Thank God they found you.”

The two women hugged, their quiet conversation inaudible to the rest.

“We need to move out soonest,” said Athos his face a mask. “This building once housed the deadliest pathogens on the planet and right now the whole place is going up in smoke.”

Orders were barked and within minutes the troops were in trucks and heading away from the scene of devastation. On the way back Aramis looked to his right and saw that even the small walled cemetery had been obliterated. Athos’ face remained rigidly impassive.

“Put your foot down,” was all he said.

The drive to Larkhill was carried out in silence, their truck coughing and spluttering, relying on fumes to get them home. With every twist of this journey they were losing the war.

“Porthos, prepare the men to defend the base,” ordered Aramis once they were back at headquarters. “We can’t yet be certain this isn’t next on Rochefort's list.”

With emergency arrangements put into place for round the clock guard duty, a council of war was then convened in the officers’ lounge -- a room that had once been venue to much happier times. The atmosphere here couldn’t be more different. There’d be no making love in front of a roaring fire today.

Ninon was shattered, barely able to stand. D’Artagnan and Constance clung to each other, destroyed by the loss of their friends. Porthos was more silent than Aramis had ever known him whilst Athos remained in the shadows, arms folded protectively in front of him as a barrier.

“How safe are we here?” was the first question Aramis posed. “Is the research facility a danger to us?”

“Theoretically no,” said Athos. “All bio-chemical weapons establishments were built to withstand attack, however the same could be said for the nuclear power stations and some of those are still leaking radiation as we speak.” He chewed thoughtfully at his lip. “From what I could determine, the fire at Porton was close to burning itself out, so we should be okay.”

Aramis topped up his brandy. “Right then. Anthrax spores are the least of our worries for now. What about Rochefort?”

Porthos shrugged. “Got this place defended as much as we can. Would be better if we were in a fort.”

“Well, we’re not,” replied Aramis. “Therefore we remain on high alert for the foreseeable future whilst we work out what to do next.”

“The antiserum is gone and my research is destroyed,” said Athos. “As it stands, there’s no way of halting the path of this disease. At some point it may even mutate and become communicable again.”

“Aren’t you the little ray of sunshine?” Porthos frowned at him.

“Just being realistic.” Athos turned to address him directly. “I’ll take some samples of your blood, process it as best I can in the hospital wing here, then make my way east to see if I can locate this so called army in Bury St Edmunds.”

The idea of Athos going there alone was unthinkable and Aramis had to fight hard to stop himself from overreacting in front of everyone. “Ninon, Constance, d’Artagnan,” he said. “Would you mind leaving us so we can have a chat in private. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning in my office.”

“I need to see Ninon to her quarters,” said Athos.

“Don’t use me as an excuse.” Ninon glared at him. “Constance and d’Artagnan can look after me just fine,” she said. “You need someone to bash some sense into that thick skull of yours and I can’t think of two people better suited to it than these gentlemen.”

“I’m simply being realistic,” reiterated Athos.

“You’re being an arse,” said Ninon, getting wearily out of her seat. “As always.”

If Aramis hadn’t been so physically and mentally shattered then he would, without doubt, have been as full of vitriol as Ninon. Instead he stared at the ash in the fireplace and listened to the sound of footsteps drumming on the floorboards.

“Drink?” he asked once the room had emptied of all but their gang of three.

Athos shook his head. “Too tired,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Not until we’ve talked,” said Aramis, ignoring his wishes and pouring three large brandies. “I’m not having you carrying the burden of this singlehandedly all over again. Treville would never forgive me.”

Mention of that much loved name often caused Athos to soften. It was obvious when it happened--a quiet expulsion of breath followed by a slump of the body--but instead the man remained wary, as tightly strung as a bow.

“It’s not a case of burdens,” he replied in a low voice. “It’s a matter of options and I’m afraid, as of today, we’re out of them. I’ll mark on a map the location of that fuel dump and vehicle depot. You go there and get enough trucks to march the regiment out west. Go to Bovington, or maybe Plymouth. You might even be able to meet up with some ex navy and requisition a ship.”

“Great idea,” said Porthos, legs splayed and arms crossed, his posture in every way defiant. “We all go west.”

“No,” said Athos. “There’s a small chance that these English Defence people know of other research facilities and an even smaller chance that I can recreate the antiserum. I have to try. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

“Then I go with you,” said Porthos. “I’m your walking miracle, remember? You stand a much better chance of making a vaccine if I’m with you.”

Cold panic spilled through Aramis’ veins at the idea of being without both men. “We do this together,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”

“This may not be much of a regiment, but you are their commander,” Athos reminded him.

Aramis shook his head. “As of today I’m not,” he said. “Ninon can take over the reins. She won’t be well enough for field missions for a while, but she’s perfectly able to boss soldiers around.”

Conceding defeat, Athos sagged and slumped into a chair, cupping his glass of cognac in both hands and staring into its amber depths. ”If that’s what you both want then I suppose I can’t stop you.”

“So it’s settled,” said Porthos. “The three of us head out east ASAP.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mention of suicidal thoughts.

A night light still needed at all times, Aramis fixed his gaze on Porthos who stared back at him, his smile gentle, his features soft in the glow of the lamp. Lying protected between them Athos seemed so slight. He slept fitfully, wrestling problems in his dreams and Aramis rested a hand on his shoulder as comfort, Porthos’ joining his, their fingers linked. 

As a threesome they’d come together just twice and yet it seemed to Aramis that they had been partners forever. The differences between them were insignificant when they were in bed and his heart ached from the weight of so much love.

“No, please, no. Ninon!” Athos begged and then shook himself awake, his eyes wide as he tried to place himself back in the real world.

“Quiet now, Athos. Everything’s okay,” murmured Porthos, cuddling up behind him.

Aramis stroked the hair away from his eyes and kissed him gently on the lips. “She’s safe. We’ve got her back.”

Still half asleep, hope blossomed on Athos’ features, but then, as he came around a little more, it vanished away like mist. Bed was the only time he allowed himself to let go and here Aramis could read him like a book. He would do anything in his power to bring Treville back from the dead, but even that much longed for resurrection wouldn’t halt Athos from his current path. To the west lay the promise of a potential safe haven, whereas the east held exactly the opposite. But with that danger came the possibility of redemption.

Athos edged closer, tilting his head and pressing his mouth soft against Aramis’ lips. He turned, seeking out Porthos this time and the sight of them kissing was enough to fill Aramis with need. Easing down his boxers, he then tugged at Athos’ sweatpants until they were bare and touching.

“I need you,” said Athos, turning again, licking at the seam of Aramis’ lips and then sucking on the pad of his tongue. He moaned softly, arching back against Porthos. “I need both of you.”

Aramis passed Porthos the tube of slick, helping him undress Athos fully and watching as that guarded expression changed to one of surprise and then pleasure. He shifted closer, pressing up against Athos, enjoying the second hand pleasure as Porthos inched inside. 

“Now.” Athos squirmed with impatience.

Aramis kissed him quiet, their frottage a rhythmic flow powered by the shifting of Porthos’ body, and as Athos threaded fingers into his hair, pulling at it, the sting only excited him further. Their kisses were greedy by now and Aramis deepened them, at the same time reaching around to run his fingernails up and down Porthos’ spine, enjoying the pull and push of the fuck and the play of those heavy muscles. 

When Porthos came it was with a loud roar of approval, the staccato judder of his hips signifying the end, and as soon as he was done Athos turned, gifting him with those hungry kisses and, at the same time, pressing insistently back against Aramis. 

There was nothing that came close to the sensation of sliding inside a body that was soaked with Porthos’ come and as Aramis did so he let out a single gasp of delight. The scent of sex that wafted upwards was sweet with familiarity, and he rode into Athos, straining to get further inside. Lost to this hedonism, he watched as Porthos played with Athos’ cock, tugging aggressively at his balls and working him to fever pitch then pulling him off until he too arched and came, taking Aramis with him on the way.

“I love you both,” said Athos as he lay sandwiched between them, sticky and sated.

“Us too,” said Porthos and then he grinned at Aramis. “He’s being nice. Better lock the bedroom door and hide the key in case he has plans to run off east while we’re having a snooze.”

“Too tired for that,” said Athos, his voice barely more than a whisper as he drifted into sleep.

\---

Whether it was sounds that alerted Aramis to something being wrong, or simply the lack of a third body in their bed, he wasn’t entirely sure. It was possible that Athos had simply gone to the loo. Maybe he needed a shower to wash away the sex. Not wanting to appear too possessive he waited a while longer, listening out for the pad of footsteps. When another ten minutes had elapsed and there was still no sign of the man he got up quietly, trying not to disturb Porthos.

“Where d’you reckon he’s gone?” came a sleep roughened voice. “He should have been back from the bathroom by now. It’s been half an hour. I checked my watch when I heard him on the move.”

“I’ll go see,” said Aramis.

“I’ll come with,” yawned Porthos. “I need a piss anyhow.”

They found him sitting cross legged in front of the fire in the officer’s lounge, throwing sticks of kindling into the flames.

“You’re a proper Houdini,” said Porthos, sitting next to him. “Always escaping.”

“Sorry,” said Athos.

Aramis took the other flank, noticing immediately the small pot of pills concealed within Athos’ left hand. “Talk to us,” he said, draping an arm around narrow shoulders.

Athos continued to feed the fire. “I’ve run out of cigarettes,” he said. “That pisses me off.”

“Athos!” Aramis berated him gently.

“Why do you need to know everything?” he asked.

“Because we worry,” replied Aramis.

“It’s the damn PTSD.” Athos turned to look at him, his eyes huge, pupils expanded fully in the lowness of the light. “It’s always there,” he explained, tapping his temple. “It might fall silent for a while, but then it’s back and I never know how badly it’s going to affect me.”

“Have you had any flashback episodes recently?” asked Aramis.

“I came close a few times,” admitted Athos. “I can usually talk myself down, but it’s-” He swallowed down his pain. “It’s been getting more and more difficult since Jean died. I miss him so much. I miss him more each day.”

“You’re being pretty hard on yourself, love. It’s not been long,” said Porthos. “And life ain’t exactly been a bed of roses since then.”

“You thought the drugs might help?” added Aramis.

Athos unfurled his fingers and gazed at the small container as if he’d forgotten it was even there. “I found them,” he said, holding the pot of pills between finger and thumb.

Clonazepam. Aramis knew it without having to read the label.

“Perhaps I was looking for them,” Athos confessed. “I’m not sure. I was such a mess after he was killed.”

You still are, thought Aramis, cursing himself for making life harder for the man when he should have been doing the opposite.

“I considered taking the lot,” admitted Athos. “It would have been a solution to the problem, but it wouldn’t have been fair on you two, or Ninon. Anyway, I have to keep trying.” 

He passed the pills to Aramis, the tremor in his fingers causing the container to drop, lid coming off and the tablets spilling out across the floor. 

Aramis retrieved them and hid the clonazepam deep in the pocket of his sweatpants. How close had Athos come?

“I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to move on. I can’t give him up.”

The breakdown was sudden and horrible. Athos speaking from the heart and letting go of his emotions had the power to shock Aramis to the core and if the stricken look on Porthos’ face was anything to go by, he felt exactly the same.

“Whatever you need,” came a voice that was gruffer than usual. “We’ll always be here.”

They huddled together, absorbing all of Athos’ misery and sharing in his tears, and by the time dawn arrived they were utterly drained. Aramis remembered Treville standing in the window of this room, sunlight highlighting the grey in his hair and he cried again for their loss.

“We need to get some sleep,” he said when he finally found the strength to pull himself together. Another big day of decision making and preparation lay ahead of them.

Nothing was left of the fire bar a few dying embers, but before leaving the lounge Porthos made sure it was out. “We don’t want any more disasters,” he said as he shut the door behind them.

The journey up the stairs was made at slow pace and when Athos stopped outside a different doorway on the landing, a heavy silence descended.

“I’ll be all right,” he reassured them. “I’d chosen this as my room before-” He paused and looked away. “It has a nice view of the stable yard.”

This was painful. Horrible. Breakdowns and now break ups -- how much more of this could they take, wondered Aramis.

“I meant it when I said that I loved you.” Athos looked back at them and even managed a sad smile. “Just not quite enough. Not yet.”

\---

As soon as they were in bed, Aramis fell on Porthos, lavishing him with kisses. Whether it was to prove a point, he wasn’t quite certain, but Porthos seemed to think so, slowing things down until they were just a tangle of limbs, mouths connected softly together.

“Sleep now,” murmured the big man, pulling back a little and kissing Aramis on the forehead.

“I hate him,” said Aramis.

“No you don’t.”

Aramis sighed. “I hate this.”

Porthos kissed him again. “That I won’t argue with.”

“We fucked up,” said Aramis quietly. “We rushed him into having sex with us when he was at his lowest point.”

“Probably right,” replied Porthos. “But he still loves us. Let’s not forget that.”

His words dissolved into quiet snores and Aramis also gave way to sleep, head resting on Porthos, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

They were both startled awake by a loud knock. The curtains had been left open and the room was ablaze with sunshine.

“What the fuck?” growled Porthos shielding his eyes from the glare, whilst Aramis hunted around for his watch.

The door opened and in came Athos, armed with a breakfast tray of coffee and toast. “Sorry, boys,” he said, his eyebrows raised in amusement, “but it is ten o’clock.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Aramis, yawning, stretching and looking around him in bewilderment as Athos placed cups on each of the bedside tables and then sat on the edge of the bed.

“How’d that happen?” said Porthos as he made a swift grab for a slice of toast and honey.

Athos shrugged. “You were exhausted after I put you through the wringer last night.”

“You’re good at that,” said Porthos, swilling down a mouthful of coffee.

“Your fingernails are dirty,” said Aramis, capturing one of Athos’ hands in his and examining it for damage.

“Constance and I were up early sorting out the cemetery at Porton,” said Athos. “It helped a little I think. It also helps not to be carrying those pills around with me.” He dragged his thumb across the back of Aramis’ hand in a gesture of thanks. “I’ve explained to the others what we’re intending to do.”

“I’m betting that didn’t go down too well,” said Porthos.

“No,” smirked Athos. “Certainly not with Ninon, but I wanted to give them time to think it over before you officially inform them of our plans, Aramis. Now eat your breakfast and I’ll see you downstairs in half an hour.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Aramis saluted him with a raised coffee cup as he left the bedroom.

“You know what,” said Porthos, making a start on Aramis’ half of the toast. “He seems better. Breaking up with us was good for him, I reckon.”

Despite everything, Aramis also felt better. In between the crying there’d been a lot of talking, all three of them owning up to private fears and deep seated sources of misery. From now onwards he wasn’t going to think of this as a break up but instead as a new beginning.

Grabbing a piece of toast, he jumped out of bed and pulled on a bathrobe. “I’m off for a shower. Don’t go back to sleep or there’ll be trouble.”

Trouble turned out to be a prescient choice of word. An hour later, when they had all gathered together in the CO’s office ready to pick up where they’d left off last night, the mood was anything but positive. Aramis stood up and walked over to the window, stared out at the fields that lay beyond the outer reaches of the base. As he did so he could feel the weight of several pairs of eyes targeting his back.

“You can’t just go,” said d’Artagnan. “What if Rochefort returns to finish us off?”

“This is why we suggested that you head west and set up a new camp,” said Athos.

“We’re hardly likely to do that without you,” said Ninon.

She looked drained, even more so now she'd learned that Athos was leaving so soon. They were a lifeline for each other in times of crisis and as vulnerable as she was right now, it must feel very much as if he were abandoning her.

Athos sat next to her on the couch. “You were the one who found out about the English Defence Force,” he said quietly. “You know we have to make contact with them as soon as possible and it would be ridiculous to turn up en masse.”

She snorted. “In total, we’re hardly what I’d call a mass.”

“Pedantry doesn’t become you,” said Athos. “You know this idea makes sense.”

“It makes no fucking sense whatsoever,” she spat. “It’s just another of your damn suicide missions.”

After the events of last night these words chilled Aramis to the bone. Did she know how close Athos had come to the brink? Were he and Porthos the only ones to have been blind to it? They hadn’t seen Athos at his worst. Both Ninon and Treville had only ever referred to those days with a combination of cold fury and anguish.

“No,” said Athos, those strange eyes fixing momentarily on Aramis. “It’s not. This is my last chance to redeem myself and I need Aramis and Porthos with me when I do so. We’ll take the jeep and the bike to Micheldever and fuel up. That’ll leave you the bus to transport everyone there and supply the regiment with some new vehicles in order to march out.”

“We won’t be going anywhere until you get back.” D’Artagnan frowned at him.

“Yeah you will,” said Porthos. “Go to Bovington. It’s safe as houses. We’ve all been there on runs and it’s a good stepping stone to the west.”

“I agree,” said Aramis. “If nothing comes from our trip out east then we’ll meet you there. Hopefully it will and we can think about combining forces, but in the meantime you can consider other options. We need you to work on a long term strategy.”

“And you seriously think the men will listen to me as CO?” said an exasperated Ninon.

“Who doesn’t listen to you?” smirked Athos. “Even Treville saluted when you entered his office.”

“Not true,” she said, reaching for Athos.

“Almost.” With a smile that was full of familial love, he sandwiched her smaller hand between both of his. “I promise you we’ll not take any risks. We’ll have a word with this new lot and see if they’re worth doing business with. If not, no harm done.”

“And if they’re hostile?” said d’Artagnan.

“We meet you back at Bovington Camp,” reiterated Aramis, although he knew what lay at the heart of d’Artagnan’s words.

“What do we do if things go wrong and you’re captured?” said Constance, frown lines marring her features as she spelled out the worst case scenario.

“You carry on without us,” said Aramis. This was wartime after all. No point in pulling punches.

“For the record I don’t like this one bit, but if you’re determined to go through with it then it seems we have no choice but to agree.” Ninon climbed wearily to her feet. “I’m tired. I need to lie down.”

“I’ll help you to your quarters,” said Constance.

Aramis watched them leave, hating to see Ninon suffering so much. Hating himself even more for putting her through this additional upset. She was, however, the reason behind his conviction that this was the only course of action to take. On their own, they stood no chance of fighting back against Richelieu and Rochefort.

“I’ve dug out a map of the area,” said Athos, unfolding the paper and spreading it out across Aramis’ desk. “From what I can remember the main barracks in Bury St Edmunds are a huge walled affair and I assume they’re using this as their HQ.” He pointed it out on the map. “Without interruptions it should take us no more than a day to get there.”

“We have to go via the fuel depot,” said Porthos.

“Indeed.” Athos picked at the dirt under his fingernails. “Also the effects of the disease are much worse the further east you go. Treville told me that London is a wasteland and we must avoid it at all costs. Other cities and big towns may well be the same. We also know that the Alliance have been filtering thousands of creeps through the Tunnel to England. We can’t be certain that they’re still doing so, but it seems highly likely.”

“They’ll carry on until they run out of cannon fodder,” said Porthos, his voice grim.

Aramis remembered his own evacuation from France, being pushed onto the train, a bewildered Porthos in tow, it all happening within hours of meeting up with this bizarre group of resistance fighters. In no time at all they had become his pack and yet back then he’d been terrified of them, wondering what on earth he’d got himself into. That sense of elation when Athos had congratulated him on a job well done had been a portent for the future.

“So, it’ll be tough going,” he said with a grin. “What’s new there?”


	23. Chapter 23

Stop sulking,” said Aramis, nudging Porthos with an elbow as they followed Athos along the A303. “We have assault rifles. We have swords. We even let you bring a grenade launcher. What more do you want?”

“One of the bazookas might have been useful,” grumbled the big man. “We had room.”

“And like Athos says, we might all be switching to bikes once we get to Micheldever, depending on what we find there.”

“Athos says, Athos says,” mocked the big man. “I thought _you_ were supposed to be in charge.”

“Not anymore,” said Aramis, breathing in the crisp, clean air of freedom. He hadn’t hated being CO half as much as he’d expected he would, but being released from the ties of responsibility felt good all the same.

“It’s only a short term reprieve,” warned Porthos. “They’ll have you back in that posh leather chair as soon as you can blink, darling.” He rifled through the bag of rations. “Want a Coke?”

“Please,” replied Aramis, taking the open bottle and swallowing it in deep gulps. Fizzy drinks were a treat nowadays. 

“Here,” said Porthos, after he’d disposed of his cola in the same greedy fashion. “What happens when he tells them who he is? How d’you reckon they’re going to react to having Dr Death turn up at their doorstep?”

This was something that Aramis had been trying to push to the back of his mind. Since the start of the war, Olivier de la Fère had been a name shrouded in mystery. It had served Richelieu well to let him remain the monster in the closet, but going by what their prisoner at the bunker had been saying, it seemed as if tactics had now altered and that Athos was being promoted as the face of evil. So far England had remained oblivious to his identity, but if this too was changing they might be in trouble and the nearer they came to the Tunnel the more likely it was that this information had filtered through from France.

“We deal with that when it happens,” he said. Hopefully this new lot would take their good intentions at face value rather than acting hastily and crucifying Athos outside the city gates.

“We’re close to the depot,” came Athos’ voice over their earpieces. “I’ll pull over at the next layby and we can surveil it for trouble. Ninon and I saw no evidence of anything last time.”

Parking neatly behind Athos’ bike, Aramis looked up at the forested hills, wondering if Athos had confused his locations. It seemed highly unlikely that the area contained anything but squirrel dreys and fox dens. Climbing out of the jeep, he stretched aching muscles.

“Bring a pair of field glasses,” said Athos. “There’s some in the glove box.” He jumped the ditch and waited on the far side for them. “Soonest would be good.”

It was an effort climbing the steep ridge and Aramis’ lungs hurt as he reached the top, leaning against the trunk of a spruce and breathing in deeply. Recovering enough to look around him, he was surprised to see such a large depot so well hidden. The bowl in the earth was vast, perhaps a natural indentation or the result of quarrying for chalk. Entrances had been hewn through the rocks, some of which had been recently bricked up. There was evidence of a spurred off train line which would have once transported fuel to the military bases in the south, but the tracks were now gone. The only way in here was by road. 

“It seems quiet enough,” said Porthos, looking through binoculars at the site below. “What’s in the tunnels?”

“No idea,” said Athos. “Stores I expect. Perhaps even living quarters for the poor suckers who were stuck with guarding the place. Look at the gauges on those tanks. I’m not wrong, am I?”

Porthos swung around to fix his gaze on the huge cylindrical drums. “You ain’t wrong,” he said. “There’s even some fuel in the tankers,” he added now looking at the haulage vehicles. “Jesus Christ. It's the fucking motherlode buried out here in the forest. To think we’ve been surviving on used vegetable oil when all this was right here.”

Aramis took the field glasses from him to have a closer look. “Some of it’s aviation fuel,” he concluded. “Which isn't much use to us.” Then he grinned. “But most of it’s diesel.”

Athos patted down his pockets, no doubt on the pointless hunt for cigarettes. “Then let's get a move on,” he said, irritable once again. “No point in hanging around here all day.” 

“Agreed,” said Porthos who then set off at a fast pace down the hillside, full of energy as he hurdled fallen tree trunks and ploughed his way through the bracken. 

“We should get him to train us,” gasped Aramis as he and Athos failed miserably to keep up with the pace. Would life ever be that simple again, he wondered.

“Keeping fit is the least of our worries,” replied Athos, jumping the finish line ditch and coming in a close third.

“Said the loser,” laughed Aramis, his chest aching from the effort. God but it was good to be free once more. 

After a quick lunch break they returned to the vehicles, Athos in charge once again and issuing commands over the airwaves.

“I’ll be taking a sharp left into the forest in approximately half a mile. We’ll then be driving a couple of hundred yards up the track to a set of gates. After that I’ll need you and your bolt cutters, Porth.”

“Right you are,” said Porthos, glowering at Aramis who was chuckling at the use of the diminutive. “Shut it,” he growled.

“Isn’t that sweet,” laughed Aramis. “He has a pet name for you.”

“Left,” yelled Porthos. “Stop pissing around, Aramis. You nearly missed the turning.”

Aramis swerved the jeep off the road and onto the track. “Sorry. I’m just jealous because he doesn’t have a cute name for me.”

He pulled up behind Athos and Porthos jumped out, collecting the bolt cutters from the toolbox in the back and then leaning in across the driver’s door for a quiet word. “Watch it or you’ll find out what it’s like to have these up that pretty arse of yours.”

“You’re full of promises today.” Grinning, Aramis sat back and watched the other two dismantle several sets of heavy chains that held the ten foot steel gates closed. It felt good to be playful again with Porthos. Command hadn’t altered their relationship as such, but it had changed the dynamics of it a little. Porthos had a healthy respect for seniority, even when he was sleeping with the boss.

“So, when do I get a pet name?” he asked as the two men returned to the Jeep. 

Athos looked at him in confusion as he checked his jacket for clips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You called him Porth earlier,” said Aramis. “I heard you loud and clear.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” said Athos with a shrug. “I loathe shortened names. My brother insisted on calling me Olly and it stuck fast all the way through university. I expect what you actually heard was the mic cutting out.”

It would have been a convincing story if it hadn't been for the ghost of a wink in Porthos’ direction.

“He’s such a liar,” said Aramis indignantly as he watched Athos kick start the Kawasaki.

“A good one though,” said Porthos as the jeep coughed into life and they followed the motorcycle slowly through the gates.

What happened next was a blur. One minute they were laughing and taking the piss out of each other and the next they were watching in slow motion horror as Athos was surrounded by a swarm of skeletal figures and then dragged from his bike.

Slewing the jeep to a sudden halt, its wheels skidding on dirt, Aramis reached for his gun.

“No firearms,” yelled Porthos, as he vaulted out. “We’re in a bloody fuel dump. We’re potentially sitting on thousands of gallons of petrol.” Grabbing his sword from the webbing, the big man charged forwards.

Aramis followed him into the fray, his own rapier at the ready. The smell of putrid flesh combined with the warm sweetness of freshly open body cavity was enough to make him puke up mouthfuls of Coke and bile. These creeps were different to the ones he had encountered so far. Emaciated to the point of starvation they were frenzied in their attack, not weak as they should be in this state, but driven on by a need to feed. This explained the new, heavy duty chains. They should have been more wary.

“Athos,” he cried as he surged forwards on a killing spree, slicing indiscriminately through living flesh. “Athos!”

“I’m here. I’m okay.” 

Aramis stilled momentarily, watching as an unrecognisable figure emerged from a pool of body parts, covered in gore from head to toe. Wiping the filth from his eyes he used his army knife to gut the creature who was clinging to him in an inhuman embrace.

With easy food for the taking, the remaining _diseased_ then turned on their own, kneeling before the mutilated corpses to feast on yards of innards. More creeps spilled out of the tunnels built into the hillside, but distracted by the feeding frenzy in front of them they joined in, ignoring the three horror stricken spectators.

“So this explains why there’s still fuel here,” said Athos, wiping his mouth and spitting out blood. “Ninon and I had no way of getting inside last time. We took a quick look at the gauges from above and then headed off to Aldermaston.”

“It would have been a constant source of food,” said Aramis with a shudder, picturing a stream of innocent victims turning up, trying to fight off the creeps who would have been so much stronger at the beginning. He turned his attention to Athos. “You were lucky you didn’t have any cutters with you last time. Are you hurt?”

“Bitten in a few places,” he said. “But I’ll survive.”

Athos was the ultimate survivor.

Meanwhile Porthos was busy examining the haulage tankers. “Most of them are close to empty, but this one still has a load of diesel in it,” he called. “I’ll get it started and drive off down the road. You two lock up the gates as best you can and then follow me out.”

“We told the others to come here,” said Athos and even that thick layer of filth couldn’t disguise the emergent symptoms of fear. “We’ve led them straight into a trap.”

“No,” said Aramis who knew Porthos as well as he knew himself. “This service station is about to be closed down.” Resting an arm across Athos’ shoulders he clamped down and squeezed at tense muscles. “Stay with us.”

“I’m fine.” Athos raised a weary eyebrow. “Just about.”

With no real means of securing the gates now that the locks had been sheared off, they did the best they could with the chains, watching as the huge oil tanker ploughed its way down the track, taking out the saplings that were growing at the outer edges of the woodland.

“How in god's name did he know how to hotwire one of those?” muttered Athos in amazement.

“His infamous misspent youth,” grinned Aramis. “I imagine the principle’s the same whatever vehicle you’re stealing.”

“You took your time,” said Porthos once they’d caught up with him. He was sitting on the step of the tanker that he’d parked in a layby at a safe distance down the road and bounced to his feet as soon as they approached. “We’re not on a bleeding jolly, you know.”

Grabbing the launcher from the back of the jeep he armed it ready. “It’ll be tricky at this range with zero visibility, but hopefully these anti tank grenades will do the business.” He then glowered at Aramis. “This would have been a whole lot easier with a bazooka.”

“Apologies,” said Aramis. “Next time you can bring ICBM’s if you think it’ll help.” Athos wasn’t joining in with the banter and placing a hand to the small of his back, Aramis could feel the tremble running throughout his body. “Wait for us in the Jeep.”

“I’m good,” said Athos.

“No, you’re not,” replied Aramis. “For once in your life just do as I say.”

Too meek, too mild, Athos complied and Aramis wondered how long it would be before he gave way. Grieving was a slow process for anyone but this was exceptionally difficult. Treville had been looking after Athos for years, long before New Bas.

“I reckon if I climb to the top of that ridge I can fire directly down into the base,” said Porthos, reconsidering his initial plan. “I warn you it might get a little hot around here. I’d move a safe distance out if I were you.”

“Not until you’re back,” said Aramis.

“Leave the bike for me. I’ll be okay.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Aramis, his jaw set in defiance. “Now get a move on before the creeps come after us.”

“Have I ever told what a massive pain in the arse you can be?” grumbled Porthos as he jumped across the ditch at the side of the road.

“I love you too,” smiled Aramis, watching the movement of branches as the big soldier climbed the ridge. 

When all was quiet he returned to the jeep to find Athos stretched out in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. Streaked with dried blood he looked all too much like a corpse and Aramis fought to stay in control of his emotions. They’d come so close to losing him today.

“I’d kill for a cigarette,” came that cultured voice, allaying Aramis’ fears for the present. “I was sure I’d left some in the side pocket.”

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. Quitting was hell at the best of times. “Priorities first, chéri. Once we’ve disposed of this place we’ll stop somewhere and clean up. There’s a river near here. I saw it on the map. After that we’ll take a detour through one of the villages and see if we can find you some smokes.”

“Why does everything have to go wrong?” 

Aramis couldn’t help but chuckle at this. He’d never heard Athos sound so plaintive, so utterly child-like before. “Did you honestly expect this was going to be easy?”

Athos never had time to reply because at that moment there was a flare of light in the sky followed moments later by a thunderous boom and the terrifying rush of an explosion as the first of the tanks combusted.

“Shit,” muttered Aramis as he started the engine and waited for Porthos to emerge from the tree line. Too long. Too fucking long. “Where is he?”

The second blast was even more impressive than the first and after that came a series of smaller ones. “Come on, Porthos.” Aramis touched his imaginary crucifix.

“There.” Athos pointed further down the road. “He’s fine.”

With a layer of soot now added to the crusted blood Porthos looked like the wild man of the forest as he ran towards them, a big and beautiful grin lighting up his face.

“Now that’s what I call fun,” he said as he stowed the launcher away in the back of the Jeep and slung a Kalashnikov across his back. 

The air was thick with smoke and they all looked up at the sky as yet another explosion kicked off a second chain. Flames roared as the trees surrounding the depot caught alight.

It wasn’t the most comfortable of situations, but at least it was diesel in the tanker rather than petrol and the prevailing winds were pushing the fire in the opposite direction. Refuelling was a lengthy performance involving barrels and hoses, not helped by the fact that diesel was a dense and dirty substance.

“If only we hadn’t run out of cooking oil,” said Porthos as he wiped his hands on a rag. “Where now?” he added, climbing astride the bike.

“Anywhere that’s not in danger of incineration will suit,” said Aramis. “Follow me.”

The fuel depot was an anomaly set within picturesque countryside and ignoring the raging inferno to their rear Aramis concentrated on the view, taking a lane that ran alongside the slow moving river which wended its way through the valley. Once they were a safe distance away from the forest fire he turned off, following a sign to one of the watercress farms that seemed so abundant around here.

“I doubt anyone’s working it now,” he said as he pulled into the small yard.

“You after a garnish for your steak?” said Porthos, as he propped the bike up on its kickstand. 

“I like watercress soup,” said Athos.

“You would do, you posh git,” teased Porthos. He turned his attention back to Aramis. “Seriously, why are we here?”

“For a wash and brush up,” said Aramis. “You know what the water’s been like in some places. At least the river here will be unpolluted.”

As they walked up to the bank this proved to be true, the water sparkling clear as it flowed across the stones and then detoured into the overgrown beds of vegetation.

“It looks cold,” muttered Athos.

The sun’ll warm us up after we have a dip,” said Porthos. “Get your kit off and we can give that a wash too.”

Stripped to underpants, Athos took the plunge and stepping into the shallows he looked back at them in horror. “It’s like ice.”

Naked, Porthos charged in after him, bowling him over into the deepest point of the river, then catching hold of him and scrubbing him clean.

“That hurts,” said Athos. “See how much you like it.”

Aramis entered the water after them, observing them as they played and examining both men for injuries. The cut on Porthos’ arm was a little red around the edges and the bites Athos had sustained were grazes rather than anything serious, but he would dose them all up on antibiotics just to be on the safe side. He too had received some nasty scratches when dealing with the creeps, their nails like filthy talons.

With the other two still enjoying themselves in the river, Aramis set to work cleaning the blood out of their clothes. He and Porthos were lucky, jackets and combat trousers coming off worst. Athos had managed to get his entire uniform saturated.

Using stones to scour the material clean, he laid each piece out on the grass in order for it to begin the drying process in the sunshine and only when he had finished did he re-enter the river for a swim.

“No end to your talents,” laughed Porthos, duck diving down and looping back under him. “Never took you for a washer woman.”

“Jack of all trades. Master of none.” said Aramis.

“Master of me,” smiled Porthos and Aramis could feel the heat of those words warm him through. It wasn’t true of course. They were equals in every way, except perhaps in the bedroom where Porthos was always the more dominant. Athos was different, pushy from beneath, testing them all the way.

On instinct Aramis searched for him to find that he was out of the river now, stretched out on the grass and absorbing the rays of the late afternoon sun.

“We should go,” he said. “We need to find a place in the village where we can bunk down for the night.”

“Shame,” said Porthos. “This is nice.” Leaning in, he kissed Aramis hard on the mouth. “One day it’ll be like this all the time.”

“You think?” said Aramis, needing it to be true.

“I’ll do my best to make it happen.” Porthos kissed him once more as a promise. His eyes flickered momentarily to where Athos lay sprawled on the bank. “Make it right for both my boys.”

After drying off on an army blanket from the back of the Jeep, Aramis collected his medical kit and came over to tend to their injuries.

“Seeing as you two are doctors, does that mean I get to play nurse in this game?” chuckled Porthos as Aramis redressed the gash on his arm and used antiseptic on the additional scratches he’d sustained today during the fight.

“I doubt they make the outfits in your size,” replied Aramis, shifting sideways until he was next to Athos. 

The bites were a little worse than he’d originally thought and several had broken the skin. The risk of infection from human teeth was always quite high, but much more so when the mouths inflicting the damage were this filthy.

“I need to examine these every day,” he said. “You know what happened to me.”

“You were an idiot back then,” murmured Athos. He turned and smiled. “Less so now.”

Aramis smiled back at him and then reiterated his warning. “If Strep-A sets in you’ll be in trouble.”

“I am aware.” Athos sat up. “Your turn now.”

He was careful when dealing with Aramis’ wounds, his hands shaking a little as he cleaned the scratches then swabbed them with antiseptic, protecting the worst ones with dressings, and Aramis was overwhelmed by this display of gentleness.

Afterwards, when they were all patched up and had taken the first round of antibiotics, Athos spoke once again from the heart. “Thank you for understanding.” He stood up and stared at the river. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

“You take all the time you need,” said Aramis. “But whatever happens we will always love you and we will always be there for you.” He paused for a moment, weighing up his words. “Treville understood you better than all of us. That’s why he gave us his blessing.”

He’d said it once before, the first night Athos was back when they were near drunk and all but broken, but was it too much now? He cursed himself silently for stating it in such a blunt manner.

“I know,” said Athos in that far away voice. “I heard him. I still hear him. I carry him with me always.”

“Give it time.” If only there were analgesia for this kind of pain. Aramis hid his emotional response from the others, dressing himself in damp clothes and shivering as the wet material made contact with his warm skin. “Not nice,” he said. “Let’s find somewhere to stay as soon as possible so we don’t catch pneumonia.”

“And I thought you were a medical man.” Athos tutted at the phrase. “I’ll ride the bike. We’ll head for the center of the village and see what we find there.”

The sun was on the verge of setting as they left the farm premises, Porthos taking the wheel this time.

He glanced at Aramis. “You handled that well considering.”

“Considering what?” replied Aramis.

“Considering the man’s a bloody nightmare,” said Porthos. “He’s like a fortress built on sand. Bits keep crumbling and he shores them back up.”

“And we’re the blocks of stone used in the repairs,” said Aramis, giving the analogy some thought.

“Nah.” Porthos negotiated the Jeep around a series of hairpin bends. “I reckon we’re his treasure room he likes to keep locked away, even from himself.”

Aramis glanced at him, a smile on his face. “You’re quite the poet when you want to be.”

“Nah,” said Porthos again, clapping him on the shoulder. “I leave all that shite to you.”

The first stopping point was the local garage and they waited outside whilst Athos went in, AK-47 in hand, on the lookout for decent plunder. When he emerged his sour expression said it all.

“No Marlboro’s in there, I’m guessing,” chuckled Porthos.

“Without doubt,” said Aramis as they moved off. “Jesus! Look at the houses.”

Even in the half light it was easy to make out the heavy lines of graffiti that marred the walls of the chocolate box cottages. _Gone East_ , many of the slogans read. _England's Defence is England’s only hope,_ said others. EDF Bury St Edmunds was scrawled everywhere. This was the first place of habitation he’d visited this far east in over a year and things had changed dramatically.

“They’re instructions,” said Porthos. “Telling us where to go.”

Aramis frowned. “Am I being contrary to be less encouraged to do so now that I’ve seen this?”

The yard of the little primary school was stacked with old corpses, thankfully too far along in their state of putrefaction to smell of death.

“Micheldever may have been pretty once, but that ain’t the case no more,” said Porthos with a shiver as they followed Athos down the high street and out of the village, turning off into a large parking area in front of an ugly warehouse. Countryman Outdoor Centre, declared the sign which was hanging lopsided, half covering the boarded up entrance. In front of the derelict building milled half a dozen vacant creeps.

“Use the swords,” said Aramis as he climbed out of the Jeep. “We don’t want to attract any others.”

Porthos sighed despondently. “But we’ve only just got clean.”

Athos obviously had the same idea and was already mounting a careful attack, dispatching them as quickly and humanely as possible. The others joined in, putting the helpless creatures down and showing restraint as they did so. They all had some level of sympathy for the D’s, having been party to their slow recovery back at base.

“I still wonder why they’re different,” said Aramis as he took out the last one. “Is it to do with personality types?”

“The virus they carry is identical so it may be a matter of genetics,” said Athos, wiping the blood off his sword. “I’ve been working on a theory that the D’s might be predisposed to some form of dementia.”

“I wasn’t one of the violent ones when I was sick,” said Porthos, his eyes widening with panic.

“You’re the healthiest man I know,” Athos reassured him. “You fought off the virus when no one else could. Your DNA might even hold the cure to Alzheimer's itself.”

This would have been as much of a breakthrough as the end of cancer, thought Aramis. Olivier de la Fère would have been hailed as a hero rather than a villain. Oh Christ, how he wished for better days.

“They’d better have some damn smokes in here,” said the would be hero as he kicked down the door and ducked neatly underneath the sign.

If they’d needed to be kitted out for the Tour de France, this place would have been the perfect discovery. It also contained everything for the horsey set and stocked waxed jackets and green wellington boots in every possible size to suit all ages from toddler to octogenarian.

“I’m having these,” said Porthos stripping down to his underwear and putting on jeans, t-shirt, and a fleece jacket. “It’s good to be out of fatigues.”

Aramis followed suit and then selected some clothes in Athos’ size, looking around for the third member of their party. It was easy to locate him from the disgruntled noises emanating from the stockroom out back.

“You’d have thought somebody in this place would smoke,” he said when he emerged. “Damn health freaks.”

“Here,” said Aramis, shoving the bundle of clothing at him. “Shut up and put these on. We need to find somewhere to sleep before night sets in.”

“Why do cyclists need specific underpants?” Athos grumbled as he got changed. “And why do they have to be so tight?”

“Quit whining,” said Porthos who was collecting up an assortment of useful equipment, including a range of camping gear. “You never know what might come in handy,” he said when Aramis looked at him mystified. “Least this way we can bunk down anywhere we like.”

After packing the plunder into the back of the jeep they set off again, taking the A30 northwards. “I’m glad he’s on the bike and not in here with us,” said Porthos, tucking into a slab of mint cake. “I never knew anyone could grouse so much. How long is it since he’s had a fag?”

Three days almost,” said Aramis. “I expect he’ll be over it in a year or two.”

“Where are off to now?” said Porthos as they took a left turn off the main road. “I didn’t have time to read the sign. You?”

“No,” said Aramis. “But I believe we’ve reached our destination.”

“A golf club,” said Porthos approvingly. “Good choice, bro,” he said over the radio.

“I thought so,” came the surly reply.

The clubhouse was a rather grand old building set within vast grounds. At first glance it appeared to be deserted, but one could never be certain and Aramis had his rifle at the ready as he alighted from the jeep.

“It would be nice to actually meet up with someone who isn’t sick or trying to blow our heads off,” he said as he stood side by side with his two companions.

Athos stared at him blankly whilst Porthos simply shrugged.

“Don’t either of you miss seeing new people?” he asked as Porthos kicked his way into the building, torch attachment on his Kalashnikov shining a light on what lay ahead of them.

“Not so much,” said the big man. “I’ll be happy just getting somewhere safe.”

“I miss France,” said Athos. “I want to go home.”

They were poignant words, and Aramis wondered again why the voice of his nicotine addiction was so childish when he was the total opposite in nature. Out of nowhere he smiled as he recalled Athos’ admission about liking cartoons. “I can’t hear any sounds from anywhere,” he said, his hand poised over the light switch. “Shall we see if there’s power?”

“Go for it,” said Porthos, his gun raised ready.

As the lights flickered on there was a combined intake of breath from the three of them, but for once it was based upon relief. This time there were no feral eyes staring at them and neither were there piles of putrefying corpses. The place was dusty and uninhabited.

“Good find,” said Porthos, patting Athos approvingly on the shoulder.

Aramis remained silent. For him it was all too reminiscent of their brief holiday as a foursome, opening up the doors to that huge Victorian edifice at Larkhill for the very first time.

Athos however was single-minded in his intentions and headed straight for the bar. 

The low level whoop of joy was unmistakeable and Porthos and Aramis smiled at each other as a waft of smoke followed on quickly.

“Thank fuck for that,” said Porthos. “I was thinking we might have to anaesthetise him until we found him a new supply.”

“What with?” asked Aramis as he searched the hallway, looking for a method of securing the main entrance. There was a large oak sideboard which would do nicely. 

“Massive quantities of booze, or maybe a swift crack over the head if that didn’t work.” Porthos stared at him. “I know that look on your face, Aramis. What are you planning?”

“How to deter unwanted visitors,” said Aramis, walking over to the heavy piece of furniture. “We can’t be certain that someone’s not keeping an eye on us.” In times of war, a healthy level of paranoia kept soldiers alive. Treville had always insisted on it. “Give us a hand with this.”

“Okay, but let me get some stuff out of the jeep first, eh?” replied Porthos. “Don’t really want to leave the weapons out there for the taking. Like you say, you never know what thieves might come along in the night.”

Piece by piece, they carried in their small arsenal and then as an afterthought Porthos fetched rations, sleeping bags and camping blankets. “It’s a golf club not a hotel. We have no bloody idea if they even have any bedrooms.”

“Good point,” said Aramis. Porthos had always been great at nest building.

Moving the sideboard took a gargantuan effort, but Aramis was pleased that they’d done so. He’d never have got any rest with the building left open to all.

“I hope they have beer,” muttered Porthos. “I’ve missed it.” 

He sounded so mournful that Aramis laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend any on tap. They’ll be well and truly off by now.”

“I s’pose,” said Porthos, “but the bottled stuff isn’t the same.”

“You can go down to the cellar and change the barrels if you’re that desperate for a pint, but they’ll probably be out of date too,” said Aramis as he followed the trail of cigarette smoke into the bar.

They found Athos with a cigarette dangling from his lips and an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the table beside him. He had a club in his hand and a golf ball in front of him. Adopting the traditional golfer’s stance he took a few practice swings as if he were about to tee off from the first and then changed his position and instead tapped the ball through the legs of a chair. 

“What we’re fortunate enough to witness right now is the lesser spotted posh bastard, at ease in his natural environment,” narrated Porthos. He took the bottle of champagne and swigged from it, bubbles frothing everywhere.

“I wonder if they have a driving range,” said Athos, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray and immediately lighting another. “I wouldn’t mind whacking a few balls.”

“As long as you leave mine out of it I don’t give a fuck,” grinned Porthos as he vaulted the bar and examined the contents. “What d’you fancy, Aramis? I’ve got a rather nice claret here or a good selection of ales that might still be in date.”

“Open another bottle of champagne,” said Aramis. They’d survived a week from hell, full of up and downs and emotional outpourings, and the simple fact that they’d managed to get through it in one piece was cause for celebration.

“Rightio,” said Porthos and the pop of the cork was a welcome sound.

“To us,” said Aramis, raising his glass. “To yet another road trip.”

“Let’s hope it’s our last,” said Porthos, wielding the abandoned nine iron with enthusiasm but very little style. “How are you supposed to do this?” he asked.

“Outside for starters,” said Athos, raising an eyebrow, but soon he was showing Porthos the correct stance and how to swing at the ball.

Aramis watched and drank, smoking a cigar he’d found behind the bar and trying not to think about how unfair the world was. He was willing to give it one last shot and if it wasn’t to be then it was a case of forgetting France and building themselves a life somewhere peaceful out west. They’d be the new pioneers.

Two hours later golf had been forgotten and all three of them were they were part way to drunk and had stopped off for a visit to melancholia. 

When Athos wandered off to find the gents, Porthos sat with his head in his hands. “I want this to work between us,” he said in a low voice.

“I do too, but we can’t force things, especially when we’re shitfaced,” replied Aramis. For some unknown reason he was sitting on the floor, but it turned out to be a convenient place as he rested his head on the comfortable pillow of Porthos’ thigh.

“I’m not pissed,” slurred Porthos. “I’m just more relaxed than normal.”

“Seriously relaxed,” chuckled Aramis. “But sadly that doesn’t alter the situation.” Glancing at his watch his expression changed to one of worry. “You do realise the little git’s gone missing again.”

They found their errant third, boots kicked off and half naked, sprawled face down on the king size bed in one of the guest rooms.

“This is the life,” said Porthos, stripping to his underwear then falling onto the mattress and shifting Athos around to make room for Aramis.

Undressing in a hurry, Aramis wondered what to do for the best, especially as Athos was now awake and was leaning in towards Porthos, a hand dipping below the waistband of his boxers. As wrong as this was they looked beautiful together, wrapped tight around each other and exchanging slow kisses.

It was Porthos who brought an end to it. “A fuck ain’t what you need right now, sunshine.” Tucking Athos tight against him he held out an arm out to Aramis and encouraged him to bed, fighting to tug the quilt free. When all three were curled up together, he let out a beery sigh of happiness. “This really is the life,“ he repeated, kissing each man in turn. “Let’s hope tomorrow doesn’t screw things up.”

“It won’t,” said Athos fervently.

“It can’t,” agreed Aramis, certain that they couldn’t take much more.


	24. Chapter 24

Too much champagne was bad for Athos. His nightmares were frequent and long lasting and, under the influence of the alcohol, it proved impossible to wake him, his subconscious in charge and leading him down a dangerous path.

In the end, Porthos folded him into his arms whilst Aramis talked him out of the flashback and only when he was back in control were they all able to get some much needed rest.

Morning arrived, watery sunlight filtering through the net curtains and Aramis opened his eyes to yet another new place. One day he would achieve the stability of that much longed for country doctor’s practice, but for now at least this was relatively clean and safe.

Athos shuffled sideways, turning away and keeping to the outer reaches of the big bed. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding miserable and embarrassed. “I should start taking the Clonazepam again.”

“No,” said Aramis. “You need to be clear headed, remember? This is why you weaned yourself off them in the first place.” He pulled Athos to him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Also, you never need to say sorry to us. You’re still hurting and we want to help.”

“No more getting rat arsed though,” yawned Porthos. “It turns you into a right little raver.”

Athos’ lips tugged upwards into a half smile. “No more molesting,” he promised.

“No more drunken molesting,” grinned Porthos. “Save it for when we’re all sober and up for it.”

“It’s a deal,” said Athos, sitting up and clutching his head. “I’m off to forage for some painkillers.”

“And once again the castle walls are shored up,” said Aramis thoughtfully. He kissed Porthos on the lips. “You’re my support. I only fall apart when you’re in trouble.”

“Same goes for me,” said Porthos, deepening the kiss.

Were they being foolish trying to manufacture themselves into a threesome when it was a strong possibility that they were never intended to be more than this? Struck by this thought Aramis surrendered to Porthos, gasping with delight as the big man licked a trail of hungry kisses downwards and then took him semi hard into his mouth. The pleasure was extreme and it didn’t take long until he was there, coming fiercely and holding Porthos in place until he was spent.

“On your knees for me, darling,” said Porthos, his breath hoarse with desire. “That’s it.” He spat on his fingers and worked them inside Aramis, stretching him open. “Love you.”

The words were earnestly spoken and Aramis repeated them back as Porthos took him. He needed this moment of submission, needed to be spread then fucked good and hard until all those troubling thoughts fell silent. He loved having sex when he was boneless from orgasm. This way he could enjoy every inch of Porthos as he fucked into him forcefully, balls slapping against his skin, the shudder and gush of warmth yet another joy.

“That was a bit quick,” said Porthos as he pulled out and got up, wiping the strings of semen from his cock.

“Had to be really,” said Aramis, tucking his hands behind his head as he watched Porthos prowl the room, collecting up his clothes from where they were strewn everywhere. “You can try out the shower and tell me how awful it is.”

“Ta muchly,” said Porthos as he padded into the bathroom and turned on the taps. “Bloody horrible,” was his verdict minutes later.

In the cold light of day, the clubhouse seemed far more run down that it had done previously. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. There was rubbish strewn around and the kitchens were a state.

“Glad we didn’t try and eat here,” said Porthos looking at the mess in disgust.

“They have those biscuits,” said Athos, full of nostalgia. “The ones in the little packets to have with coffee. I like them.”

Several boxes of these were added to his haul of cigarettes, along with cans of soft drink.

Aramis searched the rest of the cupboards. The baked beans would always come in handy. There were also tins of various fruits.

“We can live like kings,” he laughed as he packed the stuff away inside a brand new sports bag that Athos had unearthed. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“From the Pro Shop.” Athos smirked. “They have an amazing array of golfing jumpers and ridiculous trousers if you fancy getting dressed up.”

“Thanks, but I'll stick with what I’ve got,” growled Porthos. “I’ve seen what those knobs look like at the Masters.” He mixed pineapple chunks into dried muesli and then slopped it out into three bowls. “It ain’t much of a breakfast, but it’ll give us some energy.”

“It’s actually quite good,” said Athos as he spread the map out on the work top, spooning the weird combination of food into his mouth. “The motorway’s the most direct route, but we’d be best sticking to the A roads.”

“Why?” argued Porthos. “Don’t see the point when everywhere’s deserted.”

“I agree with Athos,” said Aramis. “We know for a fact that there are at least two armies mobilised and we need to stay under the radar until we’re ready to make our move.”

“Still reckon we should get there as quick as possible,” said Porthos. “We hardly made any ground yesterday, fifty miles at the most.” He ran his finger over the surface of the map. “We have at least four times that still to do.”

“Caution is essential,” said Aramis. “We’ve been far too lax so far and keep landing ourselves in trouble because of it. How many times have we assumed somewhere was deserted and then had to fight our way out?”

“We’re still here, aren’t we?” Porthos shrugged and scraped the remains of his breakfast out of his bowl.

“By the skin of our teeth,” replied Aramis. “From now on we think like soldiers and we act like soldiers.”

With the jeep packed to overflowing, they set out on the next leg of their journey, wasting as little time as possible. Aramis took the wheel, following Athos on the Kawasaki, glad that he was keeping to a steady eighty. At this speed it was possible to take in the surroundings.

As they drew ever closer to the capital the countryside gave way to a more urban landscape. England here was a massive conurbation, towns linked together by an endless sprawl of housing estates and when Athos pulled over into a lay-by Porthos was ready to take the piss.

“Don’t reckon the burger van’s serving today,” he said, waving his arm in the direction of the run down shack at the far end.

Athos pulled a face and lit up. “We’re heading towards trouble,” he said, heaving in a breath of restorative smoke. “If you look northwards, the roads are far from deserted. We may need to replan.”

Meanwhile, Aramis had taken a pair of field glasses from the side pocket of the Jeep and was staring into the distance.

“Find out what’s going on, you mean?” The line of trucks, like ants on the march, was a worrying sight.

“I thought we were staying _out_ of trouble,” said Porthos, taking the binoculars from Aramis and having a look for himself.

“Being aware of what we’re getting ourselves into is more the point I was making,” said Aramis. He looked at Athos. “What do you think? Do we see what’s going on, or do we loop around and avoid it?”

“We have to know,” said Athos. “Every bit of information is vital. It dictates what decisions we make.”

“But if we stop off to analyse every little thing along the way then we’ll never get anywhere,” said Porthos. “You already said that London is a wasteland.”

“We’re not in London,” said Athos.

“Trouble spreads,” said Porthos, still surveilling the motorway.

“I was hoping for the opposite,” admitted Athos. “I thought it might have died off.”

“So, do we head for civilisation, or stay clear of it for now?” said Aramis.

Opening a packet of biscuits, he started in on them, brushing the crumbs away from his fleece. It was nice not being in charge, but they did need to come to an agreement at some point if there was any hope of making progress.

“I suppose a quick bit of reconnaissance won’t hurt,” growled Porthos, getting out of the Jeep. “I need a piss. In the meantime, you two can figure out exactly where those trucks are headed.”

With the map spread out across the bonnet, Aramis and Athos pored over it, tracing out the occupied roads.

“They’re coming off at this junction,” said Athos, stabbing at a point with his finger. Borrowing the binoculars he had a closer look at the troop movement. “They’re then heading south.”

Aramis stared back at the map. “Here,” he said pointing. “It’s the only town in the vicinity.”

His gut instinct told him to run. Nothing about this seemed right, but then nothing had seemed right for years.

“Then we proceed with caution,” said Athos, stowing the binoculars away and hunting out some more of his beloved biscuits. “And hope this doesn’t turn out to be the lion's den.”

“I’d rather fight off a whole pride of lions than Richelieu and Rochefort,” muttered Porthos as he returned from the bushes.

“Let’s hope that this lot aren’t affiliated then,” said Aramis as he settled back behind the wheel of the jeep.

Ditching the vehicles on the outskirts of the town, making sure they were well hidden up a small track that led to an abandoned warehouse and well camouflaged by branches, they set off on foot, armed with pistols rather than assault weapons. 

The ancient church of St Michael and All Angels provided them with a good vantage point from which to survey the goings on. The door was unlocked and the inside of the stone building was cold, layered thick with dust and smelling of damp and mice.

“The bell tower,” said Aramis, opening a small arched doorway, familiar with the layout of the Norman church.

“You three must hurry,” said a voice from behind them. “You don’t want to miss the clearing. You’ll be abandoned.”

This was everything Aramis had been yearning for, a new face, friendly and untainted with illness, and yet the words of the old priest filled him with concern.

“What’s the clearing?” asked Athos.

“The Force are here,” said the priest. “England’s Defence. Our last resort. They’ve promised to save us all.”

It sounded far too evangelical for Aramis’ liking, but what else could one expect coming from a member of the clergy?

“How do you not know about this?” said the old man.

“We’ve come from the west,” explained Porthos. “We’re looking for help.”

“Then, my dear boy, you've found it,” said the priest, a look of what could only be described as joy on his face. They have everything we need. I really must go now.”

They watched him scuttle down the aisle towards the open doors, legs bent with arthritis, walking stick clipping across the flagstone floor.

“Compelled by the word,” murmured Aramis. “Of rumour rather than God.”

“One and the same.” Athos raised an eyebrow at him.

Aramis shrugged in response. His world had changed enough in the past few years and simple faith was no longer cutting it. “True enough,” he replied, ascending the spiral steps of the bell tower, taking two at a time with the others following on behind.

“This is bloody weird,” said Porthos as they looked down on the town from the high parapet. “It's like there’s a party going on.”

It did indeed seem to be a carnival atmosphere, people lining the streets to welcome the caravan of trucks that were arriving en masse.

A burst of gunfire rattled upwards and Aramis and Porthos looked to Athos who was in possession of the binoculars.

“ _Diseased_ ,” he said by way of explanation. “The EDF troops are rounding them all up and disposing of them.” He passed the field glasses to Aramis. “But that's not the part that bothers me.”

Aramis surveyed the town. The people were now lining up in ranks, a steady stream of them embarking into the back of the trucks like cattle. They were happy, excited at the prospect of something better, and the scene was oddly chilling.

“We have to make our minds up soon,” he said, passing the binoculars down the line to Porthos. “There’s little here that makes me want to trust them.”

“We have nothing left to lose,” said Athos and then he looked away. “ _I_ have nothing to lose. You two have each other. Go. Get away from here and go back to Larkhill.”

“And leave you with all the cake and flag waving,” said Porthos. “Not a chance, you greedy fucker.”

These three way hugs were becoming the glue that held Aramis together. Wrapped up in them, breathing in the individual scents of each man, he took full advantage of this brief moment of comfort and then pulled away, full of renewed determination.

“I vote we go and meet England’s only hope,” he said, with an air of wry amusement.

“So we’re voting on things now, are we?” laughed Porthos as they headed for the steps. “You’d better take notice of that, me old son,” he added as he slung an arm around Athos’ shoulders. “We’re a fucking democracy.”


End file.
